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By James B. Hendryx 


The Promise 
The Gun Brand 
The Texan 
The Gold Girl 
Prairie Flowers 


/ 


North 

Connie Morgan in Alaska 
Connie Morgan with the Mounted 
Connie Morgan in the Lumber Camps 
Connie Morgan in the Fur Country 



‘NORTH 


BY 

JAMES B. HENDRYX 

AUTHOR OF “ THE PROMISE,” “ SNOWDRIFT, 
“ CONNIE MORGAN IN ALASKA,” BTC. 



G. P. PUTNAM’S SONS 

NEW YORK AND LONDON 

Zbc Iknicfterliocftet ipceae 

1923 



Copyright, 1923 

by y 

James B. Hendryx 




CONTENTS 


CHAPTER PAGE 

I. —Burr MacShane. 3 

II. —In the Big Camp . .13 

III. —Christmas. 27 

IV. — A Game of Cribbage. 37 

V.—North.53 

VI.—Camillo Bill Averts a Stampede . 62 

VII.—The Gordons Hit THE Trail ... 70 

VIII.— CoLDFOOT .78 

IX.—On the Koyukuk .85 

X.— Enright Pays a Visit.100 

XI.— Disappointment. 114 

XII.— “Twenty Minutes to Four** . . . 127 

XI II . —The Start. 134 

XIV. —The Finish. 147 

XV.— “Miner’s Meetin* **.154 

• • • 

111 














IV 


Contents 


CHAPTER PAGE 

XVI. — Off the River . 171 

XVII. — Skookum .190 

XVIII.—On the Long Snow Trail . . . 202 

XIX.—On Death Valley Hill .... 212 

XX. —Man of the Far North .... 227 

XXI. —The Plotting of Jake Dalzene . 244 

XXII.—Poison.254 

XXIII. — “I Drive Those Dogs”. 265 

XXIV. —The Alaska Sweepstakes . . . 274 

XXV. —Huloimee Tilakum.284 

XXVI. —Eyes in the Dark.293 

XXVII. —The Worth of Gold. 305 

XXVIII. —Sunrise.318 










NORTH 


NORTH 


CHAPTER I 
BURR MacSHANE 

It was just before Christmas, and into Dawson, 
a straggling camp of tents and log cabins, the sour¬ 
doughs were drifting from the outlying creeks and 
washes. It was in that portentous year of the 
Yukon when in August, Henderson’s strike on Gold 
Bottom was followed immediately by Carmack’s 
strike on Bonanza, and the men of Fortymile and 
of Circle looked into the blowers and saw coarse 
gold that had been panned from the grass roots. 
Whereupon, claims paying “better than wages’’ 
were abandoned, outfits hastily thrown together, 
and in poling boats and in canoes, the sourdoughs 
stampeded up river. The traders, the saloon 
keepers, and the girls from the dance halls followed 
the gold hunters and on the flat in the shadow of 
Moosehide Mountain the camp of Dawson was born 
of the life blood of Circle and Fortymile. 

But, from the first the new camp differed essen¬ 
tially from the older camps where it had been the 


4 


North 


wont of the sourdoughs to foregather for a winter 
of idleness and revelry. For, close upon the discov¬ 
ery of gold in the upper country, came the discovery 
of the process of ‘'burning in,” and in that year the 
Yukon saw the first winter mining of her history. 
These were the days of the unspoiled Yukon, be¬ 
fore the stampede from the outside filled the valleys 
and the creek beds with its hordes of tin-horns and 
chechakos —the days when a man’s word was as 
good as his pile and a card would be turned unques¬ 
tionably upon a finger bet for thousands. 

But with Christmas hard upon them, despite the 
fact of the new found winter mining, and despite the 
fact that the sourdoughs were gouging in gravel 
richer by far than the gravel of their fondest dreams, 
one by one the fires were allowed to die out in the 
shafts along the creek beds. The sourdoughs were 
drifting into the new camp. For Christmas is 
Christmas—and what is a week or two of work, 
when the bulk of the winter is still ahead, and when 
each test pan shows coarse gold and more of it than 
the luckiest of them had ever taken from many test 
pans? And what is a week or two of work when 
the white lights are calling—the clang of the dance 
hall piano, the feel of a woman held close, the 
smooth purr of the wheel, the run of the cards at 
the poker tables, the warm grip and glow of the 
liquor, and the comrader>^ of men who thudded 
heavy sacks onto the bar from the mouths of which 
coarse gold was shaken onto the scales? 




Burr MacShane 


5 


There had been no prearranged plan for a general 
celebration at Christmas—no looking forward in 
anticipation of a grand hurrah. But the spirit of 
Christmas was in the air. And each sourdough, 
independent of his neighbor, harnessed his dogs and 
silently hit the trail, knowing instinctively that at 
the end of the trail he would find his neighbor. For 
man is by instinct gregarious, and he will travel far 
to answer the primordial call of his kind. For a 
month, a year—longer, he may remain alone. But 
the passive act of remaining is a distinct effort of 
will, a continued and continuous throttling of desire, 
until at last the time comes when desire may no 
longer be throttled. A man may remake himself, 
may completely change the sequence of act, the 
sequence of thought, that has differentiated him 
from other men, he may thus change what men are 
pleased to call his nature. But, the fundamental 
law that has decreed him a social animal he cannot 
change—and remain a man. The fugitive from 
justice, though he know himself to be beyond 
thought of capture in some far fastness of the . 
wilderness will, when the time comes, count prison 
bars, and even the hangman’s noose, as naught, and 
will deliberately risk capture in seeking the society 
of his kind. And the man of the far North will 
brave the hardships of the long trail, will laugh at 
the strong cold, will bore through the blinding bliz¬ 
zard, will risk thin ice, and uncomplaining accept the 
gruelling labor of the snow trail for no other thing 


6 


North 


than that he may intermingle with his own kind. It 
is the law. Men have broken the law and have paid 
the fullness of its fearsome penalty. The brain that 
makes man man explodes, and the man of a moment 
before is a raving insentient brute which in a fume 
of unreasoning fury seeks only to destroy until in 
a final paroxysm of malignity he destroys himself. 
Or, the dissolution of the brain may come gently and 
the breaker of the law of kind, maundering, and 
prattling, and babbling, may live on, and on, and on. 

A short distance above the mouth of a dry wash 
that emptied into the wide valley of Bonanza, Burr 
MacShane threw the last shovelful of gravel onto 
his dump and methodically kindled his fire on the 
iron-hard gravel at the bottom of his shallow 
shaft. An enormous malamute turned with a sneeze 
of disgust from his contemplation of the shaft as 
the acrid smoke filled his nostrils, and MacShane 
laughed: '‘Surprised as hell, ain’t you. Highball, 
that fire gives off smoke? Every day you stand 
there an’ get a noseful, an’ then down goes your tail 
an’ you sneeze out the smoke. You act like a fool 
pup—an’ you the best trail dog in the North!” At 
the words the tail of the great dog snapped erect, 
and rearing upward he placed two large forefeet 
upon the man’s chest. The ensuing tussle during 
which each tried to put the other in the snow was 
interrupted by the tiny tinkle of bells. Man and dog 
paused to watch an outfit pass the mouth of the 
wash far out on the trail. MacShane grinned: 


Burr MacShane 


7 


“Headin’ for Dawson,” he confided to the dog, 
“That’s the sixth one in three days, an’ the Lord 
knows how many that we didn’t see. An’ in a 
week or so they’ll be headin’ out again. Ain’t men 
fools, Highball ? They ought to stay with tlie 
gravel.” 

That afternoon MacShane cut cordwood and 
from the vantage point of the rim saw three more 
outfits pull by. When it was too dark to see he 
descended to the cabin, built a roaring fire in the 
stove and proceeded to fill a tin boiler that had 
originally been a petrol can, with ice. 

“Kind of like to hear how the rest of ’em are 
makin’ it,” he muttered to himself while the ice 
melted. “I’d kind of like to know if any of ’em 
have struck bed rock. That’s what’s goin’ to tell 
the story of this strike: What’s on bed rock? 
This shallow gravel is sure shot full, but the real 
stuff will lay where it can’t work down any farther.” 

The ice melted, he added more, and when the 
tin boiler was half full of water he stepped outside 
and carried in a piece of old tarpaulin onto which 
he had shoveled a hundred pounds or so of gravel 
from the morning’s digging. The gravel was 
frozen into a solid mass and he set it beside the 
stove while he stripped off his clothing and took a 
bath, using the water sparingly. Dressing himself, 
he proceeded to wash his discarded underclothing, 
shirt and socks in the boiler. Hanging these gar¬ 
ments on the drying rack, he produced a pan and 


8 


North 


when the gravel had thawed sufficiently, dumped in 
a batch and filled the pan from his wash water. 
Squatting upon the floor close beside the lamp which 
he moved to the edge of the table, he began to work 
the pan with a peculiar circular motion that threw 
the lighter dross splashing over the edge onto the 
floor. The coarser gravel he removed with his 
hands, tossing it aside. As the gravel and water 
lowered in the pan he examined the residue care¬ 
fully until with a final flirt he ridded the pan of the 
last remaining bit of muddy water. Then he turned 
the contents onto a piece of wrapping paper spread 
out to receive it, and sorted the gold from the re¬ 
maining dross. Flour gold, dust, and nuggets, that 
single pan weighed in at one hundred and forty 
dollars! MacShane rose, carried the tarpaulin with 
the remaining gravel out to the dump and with the 
water that remained in the boiler he washed his 
floor. Crossing to his bunk he withdrew from be¬ 
neath the blankets a buckskin pouch and pouring its 
contents onto the paper, sat for a while and looked 
at the yellow pile. He consulted a memorandum 
book, and added a notation. 

“That makes close to eight thousand dollars out 
of the test pans,” he figured, “an’ at that rate there's 
over a hundred thousand on the dump, an’ God 
knows how much on down. This is sure some 
strike! Wait till the news of it gets outside! I 
would like to have a dance or two. I guess most 
of the girls have hit the new camp by now. This 


Burr MacShane 


9 


new strike sure raised hell with Circle an* Forty- 
mile !” As the words unbidden expressed his trend 
of thought, the man’s fingers abstractedly separated 
the larger nuggets from the little pile of gold. He 
returned a handful to the sack and dumped the 
coarse gold and the dust in after them. Then he 
prepared his supper and as he ate it he cooked up 
a meal of tallow and rice for his seven dogs. 

‘T expect Horse Face Joe come up along with the 
rest,” he mused as he washed and dried his dishes, 
“He sure is a doleful bird, but he can make the 
piano talk. Reminds a fellow of—I don’t know— 
sort of just lifts him up an’ out of it all. From 
about the fourth drink on, he’s a wonder. It’s a 
gift—music like he makes is. When he’s feelin* 
right he can just play on an’ on, makin’ it up as 
he goes, an* all of it’s better than anything that’s 
be’n wrote down—somehow it gets right to a man.” 
He apportioned the dog food into seven separate 
dishes and carried them out the door, then he re¬ 
turned and lighted his pipe. “Noticed the tea was 
gettin* a little low, an* another hundred of flour 
wouldn’t hurt. She was two dollars a pound when 
I come in, chances are she’ll go an ounce to the 
pound by spring.” Ensued a silence during which 
MacShane’s pipe went out. “That mitten I burnt 
the end of ain’t goin’ to last long either. Horse 
Face would be just about hittin’ his gait by now.” 
He stepped to the door and glanced toward the 
mouth of his shaft where the red glow proclaimed 


10 


North 


that it was time to throw on more wood. Closing 
the door he put on cap and mittens, but instead of 
going to the shaft he pulled off his mittens, filled 
his pipe and sat down. ^‘They’re sayiff that this is 
the last big strike,” he mused, “That when this 
peters out there won’t be any more poor man’s 
gold—^but hell! There’s always another strike. 
There always has be’n, an’ there always will be.” 
He jerked the cap from his head and tossed it onto 
his bunk. “To hell with the fire! I’ll pull in the 
mornin’. Got to get that tea, an’ flour, an’ another 
pair of mittens. You can’t trust burnt moosehide.” 
He fired up the stove and put on another batch of 
dog food. “I’ll hit the trail early tomorrow, an’ 
I’ll burn her up!” While the dog food cooked, 
MacShane sat and stoked the fire and thought. 
Most men would have passed the time by reading, 
but not Burr MacShane. He preferred to think, to 
envision long trails—trails he had mushed alone 
with his dogs, and trails no man had ever mushed. 

Just turned thirty years old, he was chiefest 
among all the sourdoughs of the mighty North. 
And he knew the North as no other man ever knew 
it. Cabin boy on a whaler, he deserted at the age of 
fourteen at St. Michaels, and for several years he 
knocked about the Russian settlements and the 
Eskimo villages of the lower Yukon, gradually 
widening his circle of adventure until in the eighties, 
and early nineties, men who thought they were ex¬ 
ploring virgin territory were continually crossing 


Burr MacShane 


II 


his trail. Indians who had seen no other white man 
knew him by name, and little, isolated tribes there 
were who years afterward still called all white 
men Burrmacshane, believing it to be the name of 
the whole white race. He was the first white man 
to explore the Kuskokwim, and the first to traverse 
the mighty waste eastward from Kotsebue Sound up 
the Kobuk and down the Koyukuk to the Yukon. 
Always he played a lone hand, and among the sour¬ 
doughs he was regarded as a super man. No boast¬ 
ing of adventure where men foregathered but what 
some adventure of Burr MacShane out-topped them 
all. Yet, of these adventures MacShane, himself, 
never talked. For no adventure could there be in 
the North of which MacShane had not tasted the 
fullness. He had fought starvation, strong cold, 
blizzard, thin ice, rotten ice, fire, famine, water, 
and disease, and always he had won. By the very 
force and indomitable nerve of him he had won, 
and by the strength of his iron-hard frame. Every 
camp in the gold country had at some time or other 
boasted his habitat, but none had boasted for long. 
The wild, restless spirit of him forever goaded him 
on. The long trail beckoned, and he would hit the 
long trail. The strong cold descending upon a 
camp would drive men to the shelter of their fires, 
and MacShane, defying the strong cold, would 
throw his outfit together and mush a thousand miles. 
Men whispered that every safe in Alaska and in the 
Canadian Yukon held some of MacShane’s gold. 


12 


North 


But not for his gold was he held in regard, for no 
man ever thought of MacShane as rich. His deeds 
outshadowed his gold—in a land where gold is God. 

So MacShane mused, half dozing by the fire 
while the dog food cooked. “She's a great strike, 
all right, but she ain’t the last great strike—by a 
damn sight. An’ next year this country won’t bq 
fit to live in. When the news gets outside there’ll 
be fifty thousand chechakos pilin’ in here. The 
damned fools! Most of ’em will go broke, an’ a 
lot of ’em will die, an’ a few will take out some 
dust—but what good will it do ’em? They '11 go 
back outside an’ buy ’em a chicken ranch. The big 
country will never get to ’em. They’ll think they’re 
skookunt, but it’ll all be luck. The strike’s be’n 
made, an’ all they got to do is shovel out the gravel. 
I’d rather be a Siwash than the best of ’em—a 
Siwash has got a chance to see something new, to 
follow a trail that ain’t packed, to tear his meat 
from the teeth of the land, an’ not buy it at the 
tradin’ company’s store. Damn chechakos! .^But I 
won’t be here to see ’em. There ain’t anyone tried 
the Colville river yet, an’ even the Koyukuk ain’t 
be’n scratched. God, but she’s bleak up there, with 
the long night, an’ the strong cold. But she ain’t 
b’en scratched, an’ combed, an’ raked, an’ the 
cricks ain’t be’n punched full of holes. I’ve got a 
hunch. North, it says. North!” and with a smile 
on his lips the man removed the dog food, blew 
out his light, and rolled between his blankets. 



CHAPTER II 
IN THE BIG CAMP 


It was' Dawson’s first Christmas eve. The 
Golden North Saloon was a blaze of light. Sour¬ 
doughs from the creeks crowding the bar kept 
weighers and bartenders working as they had never 
worked before. For in the new order of winter 
mining, the sourdoughs were bent on crowding a 
whole* winter’s hilarity into the space of a few days 
and nights. Sound filled the air, the blare of the 
dance hall piano as two step and waltz crashed 
forth under the sure touch of the nimble fingered 
Horse Face Joe, and the screech and scrape and 
moan of the accompanying violin. With punctuat¬ 
ing stabs sounded the voice of the caller as, at some¬ 
one’s vociferous demand, the music swung into a 
square dance. All this was the crescendo of sound. 
But other sounds there were, audible, distinguish¬ 
able, blending a minor theme into the wild harmony 
of the whole. The soft scraping of moccasined 
feet on the floor boards, the clink and tinkle of 
glasses, the crackling rustle of silk petticoats as 
some sourdough in a sudden excess of exuberance 
swung his partner high in the air, the drone of 


H 


North 


voices, the purr of the wheel, an occasional burst 
of laughter. It was a good night—as nights go— 
for the pervading spirit was Fun. And the men from 
the creeks had earned their fun. By the gruelling 
toil of their two hands they had earned it, by the 
chopping of cordwood, the tending of fires, and by 
the gouging and hoisting of frozen gravel from the 
black mouths of shafts. It was their night, and in 
the fullness of their several capacities, they were 
enjoying it. 

At the bar the talk was of gold. “Fve cleaned up 
more than an ounce to the pan—not once, but a 
dozen times,” said Moosehide Charlie. 

“I took five ounces out of a test pan, an’ didn’t 
get all the flour gold, at that,” interrupted Camillo 
Bill,, “an’ I’m bettin’ my whole dump will run 
better than an ounce to the pan.” 

“I’m tellin’ ye,” said Old Stuart Gordon, “Ye’re 
goin’ to see a hundred dollars to the pan before 
this winter’s out.” 

A general laugh followed: “Have another shot 
of hootch. Old Timer, an’ make it two hundred, 
an’ we’ll all get rich!” bantered Ace-In-The-Hole 
Brent. 

The old man wagged his head sagely, and re¬ 
doubled his prophecy: “Aye, an’ ye’ll see two 
hundred to the pan before bed rock is reached. I’m 
tellin’ ye we’re right now ridin’ the biggest strike 
the world ever seen. But don’t let me hinder the 
orderin’ of the round of drinks. A wee bit tipple 


15 


In the Big Camp 

on a night like this hurts no man. Don’t the Gude 
Book say ^take a leetle wine for thy stomach’s sake’ ? 
An’ the wine not bein’ handy, we’ll have to make 
whusky do.” 

The men laughed and drank, and the glasses 
were refilled, for Old Man Gordon, as he was called 
by the men of the Yukon, was a general favorite 
among them. He was not old, probably in his early 
fifties, but his grizzled beard and grey hair made 
him appear a veritable patriarch among them. For 
Dawson was a camp of young men. But grey hairs 
were not his sole distinction. He was the only man 
in camp who had brought his family with him. 
Originally a Hudson’s Bay Company employee, he 
had married the daughter of a factor in the 
Mackenzie River country, and several years before, 
bringing his wife and little daughter, had built a 
cabin on Birch Creek. When news of the up-river 
strike reached him, he abandoned his claim, loaded 
his family into a poling boat and was among the 
first to erect a cabin in the new camp. Another 
thing that differentiated him from the general run 
of his associates was his religious turn of mind. 
The deep-rooted Calvinism of his ancestors had 
taken firm hold of his rugged nature. No provoca¬ 
tion could wring an oath from his lips, and his con¬ 
versation was liberally besprinkled with quotations, 
and misquotations from “the Gude Book.” 
Strangely enough, this strict Calvinism, while it 
held him to a certain stern code of morals, seemed 


i6 


North 


to take small offence at his occasional lapses from 
sobriety. He never gambled, but there were those 
who laughingly whispered that his natural Scotch 
canniness, more than his religion, was responsible 
for his aversion to the gaming tables. Be that as it 
may, gamble he would not, and the suggestion of 
poker or roulette generally called forth a vehement 
discourse upon the frivolity and worldliness of 
“riskin’ gude gold on the turn of a card or the spin 
of a wheel!” 

“An’ so ye think,” continued the old man, warm¬ 
ing to the liquor “that I’m touched i’ the head wi’ 
my talk of a hundred, an’ two hundred dollars to the 
pan?” He paused and glared a challenge into the 
faces of the five men grouped about him. 

Camillo Bill laughed: “No, no, nothin’ like that, 
Gordon! Only if this here camp ever feels the need 
of a booster’s club. I’ll sure nominate you for the 
first president of it.” 

“You said we was goin’ to see two hundred 
dollars to the pan before we struck bed rock,” re¬ 
minded Moosehide Charlie, “What’s she goin’ to 
run when we do hit the bottom?” 

“Ye’ll see four and five hundred dollars weighed 
from a single pan when bed rock is reached,” re¬ 
plied Gordon, “Ye think I’m crazy—but, wait an’ 
see.” 

“Mebbe bed rock will be a solid floor of gold, an’ 
we can just blast her out in chunks,” suggested 
Stoell, the gambler. “It’ll sure be hell on the 


17 


In the Big Camp 

mahogany when the boys get to tossin’ them big 
chunks across the bar/’ 

“Whoopie!” cried Betties, “Five hundred to the 
pan? I sure feel rich! Come on, boys, liquor up 
so I can spend some of this here fabulous wealth! 
You’ll do me a favor by helpin’ me lighten my sack. 
I feel weighted down with gold, an’ that’s a hell of 
a fix to be in.” 

“It’s my turn to buy,” interrupted Camillo Bill, 
“Here you. Jack, shove out a bottle! Hold on!” 
he cried in mock solicitude, as the bottle thumped 
down on the bar. “You’ll sure have to learn to set 
them glasses an’ bottles down careful. Old Man 
Gordon, here, has got gold cornin’ in chunks so 
big you’ll have to cover yer bar with boiler plate to 
keep her from wearin’ out.” 

“Have yer fun, ye addle pates!” grinned the old 
man, “But the days ain’t far off when ye’ll be sayin’ 
how Old Man Gordon was the only one that could 
see ahead of his nose. An’ speakin’ of b’iler plate, 
I wish I had a good b’iler here right now.” 

Shouts of laughter greeted the announcement. 
“Give him a boiler for his. Jack. It’s my treat!” 
snickered Camillo Bill. 

“He’s goin’ to melt ice an’ run a winter flume.” 

“He’s goin’ to rig a steam h’stin’ derrick to lift 
them big chunks of gold out of his shaft.” 

“Borrow the boiler out of the steamboat fer the 
winter. They won’t need it till spring.” 

“Dogs can’t pull no such output of gold, nohow. 


18 North 

' He’s figgerin’ on startin’ a steam sled line out to 
his claim.” 

And so it went, one preposterous suggestion fol¬ 
lowed by a more preposterous one. And in the 
centre of the group, Old Stuart Gordon poured his 
drink in owlish solemnity, and let them rave. 

“I believe they’re jokin’ at you, Gordpn,” said 
Betties, with solemn countenance, ‘‘But, layin’ jokes 
aside, what in thunder do you want of a boiler?” 

“To thaw out the gravel wi’ steam,” and undis¬ 
turbed, he waited for the laughter to subside. “Ye’ll 
see it done,” he continued, with conviction. “Ye’d 
of all laughed an’ babbled yer brainless jokes last 
winter if anyone told ye there’d be winter minin’ on 
the Yukon. An’ now ye’re used to the winter minin’ 
by thawin’ the gravel wi’ cordwood fires, an’ ye 
think it’ll always be thawed that way. But it won’t. 
It’s a waste of wood, an’ a waste of time, an’ a waste 
of hard labor. Wi’ a b’iler, now, an’ a steam hose 
runnin’ to the bottom of the shaft, ye could thaw 
the muck an’ gravel faster, an’ use half, an’ less 
than half the wood.” 

The door opened and a man entered in a cloud 
of steam that swirled about his knees. Shaking his 
hands from a pair of heavy fur mittens which 
dangled upon their thongs, he fumbled at the tie 
strings of his cap. He was a lean man, with the 
rugged leanness of perfect health, and he advanced 
into the room with the springy step that bespoke 
perfect coordination of tireless muscles. 


19 


In the Big Camp 

“It’s MacShane!” cried Moosehide Charlie, and 
instantly the name passed from lip to lip through¬ 
out the length and breadth of the room. Men called 
greeting from the poker tables, the dancers paused 
amid the whirl of a waltz to wave a hand at him, 
and the onlookers at the wheel and the faro layouts 
crowded forward to the bar. The newcomer was 
deluged with invitations to drink. For in the camp 
of the sourdoughs, the name of MacShane was a 
name to conjure with. 

“Merry Christmas, you trail-mushers an’ sour¬ 
doughs!” he called, “Merry Christmas, you frost- 
hounds, an’ dancin’ girls!” 

McCarty, owner of the Golden North Saloon 
rapped loudly upon the bar : “The family’s all here !” 
he cried, “An’ the house buys! Mush up, an’ name 
yer liquor. We’re goin’ to drink to a Merry Christ¬ 
mas—an’ many of ’em!” 

The music ceased abruptly in the middle of a 
dance. The girls crowded forward on the arms of 
their partners, shouting greetings to MacShane, who 
called most of them by name as he returned the 
pleasantries. As the glasses were filled, MacShane 
was busy greeting old acquaintances, recalling with 
unfailing accuracy the last place he had seen them. 
It was: “How’s everything at Nulato?” “When 
did you quit the Tananna?” “How’s everyone at 
Eagle?” “What’s doin’ on the White River?” and 
so on, until McCarty interrupted, holding his glass 
aloft. 


20 


North 


"A Merry Christmas!” he cried, and ^^erry 
Christmas!” arose from the throats of the crowd in 
a mighty surge of sound. 

“Come over here, Horse Face I” cried MacShane, 
when the empty glasses had been returned to the bar, 
“I figured you’d be here. One drink calls for an¬ 
other, an’ while you’re all bunched up handy, you’ll 
drink with me.” He nodded to McCarty. “Have 
the boys fill ’em up again,” he ordered, “an’ we’ll 
drink to the luck of the camp 1 I want Horse Face 
right here beside me so I can see that he gets a good 
sizeable noggin’, ’cause he’s sure got to make that 
old music box talk this night.” He paused and 
looked around: “All set?” he asked, “Here goes, 
then: ‘To the luck of the camp!’ ” And once more 
a mighty surge of sound filled the room: “To the 
luck of the camp!” 

Someone else wanted to buy, but MacShane 
laughingly shook his head: “Not too fast!” he 
cried, “We all have got a day or two yet, or a week 
for this here jollification, an’ we don’t want to get 
drunk to start off with, ’cause if we do we’ll have 
to either stay drunk or feel sick, an’ I don’t aim to 
do neither one. An* besides, Christmas ain’t till 
tomorrow, anyhow.” 

A few ordered drinks, but for the most part the 
crowd, with the words of approbation on its lips, 
went back to its cards, and its dancing. MacShane 
joined the little group of sourdoughs, who still 
stood at the forward end of the bar: “How’s 


In the Big Camp 21 

everything?” he asked, “How you all makln’ 
it?” 

The answers were unanimously optimistic, and 
Camillo Bill laughed: “But you ought to be'n here 
a while back an’ heard Old Man Gordon speak 
his piece.” 

The old Scotchman interrupted, stepping for¬ 
ward: “Ye’re Burr MacShane, I take it? I’ve 
crossed ye’re trail, but I never had the luck to meet 
up with ye.” 

MacShane laughed: “I’m Burr MacShane,” he 
answered, “an’ where was it you crossed my 
trail?” 

“It was two or three years back, an’ the trail was 
three or four years old, then—but still fresh.” 

Moosehide Charlie grinned: “That’s the way 
with Old Man Gordon,” he explained, “He mostly 
talks in riddles—when he ain’t prophysin’ some fool 
thing or other.” 

“ ’Tis no riddle at all, but clear as the spoken 
word to any man blessed wi’ better than a louse-sized 
brain. Ye’ll recollect an’ old Injun named Amos, 
that lives way up on the head of the Porcupine, 
where a little swift river piles down out of the 
Nahoni Mountains?” 

MacShane nodded: “Yes, I believe I do.” 

“Well, there’s where I crossed ye’re trail.” He 
turned to the others. “Amos broke through thin 
ice. A minute more an’ he’d of be’n caught by the 
suck of a rapids when MacShane went im after him. 


22 ' North 

He went in all over, an’ it was thirty below, an* 
no camp made!” 

Exclamations broke from the lips of the men 
of the North as their eyes sought MacShane’s face. 

MacShane laughed: “You don’t want to believe 
everything an Injun tells you. Mostly, they’re 
lyin’.” 

“This one wasn’t,” answered Gordon, with con¬ 
viction. “An’ that’s what I meant by say in’ yer 
trail is fresh yet on the Porcupine. An’ Injun 
never forgets.” 

“Hell! Thirty below ain’t so cold,” answered 
MacShane, with just a trace of annoyance in his 
tone. “We got a fire built right away, an’ in half 
a day we was dried out an’ good as ever. But, 
what’s doin’ on the creeks? How far down you 
got, an’ what does she show?” 

“I’m lookin’ to sluice out big in the spring,” 
offered Camillo Bill. “Took five ounces out of 
one pan.” 

“I’ve took better than an ounce out of a lot of 
pans,” said Moosehide Charlie, “an’ I know I ain’t 
into the good stuff yet. I ain’t only about ten foot 
down. But, you’d ought to heard Gordon! He 
says we’re goin’ to be takin’ out a hundred dollars 
to the pan-” 

“He said two hundred, before we struck bed 
rock,” interrupted Betties. 

“And five hundred dollars on bed rock,” added 
Ace-In-The-Hole. 



23 


In the Big Camp 

*‘An^ wood firin’ has got too slow for him,” 
supplanted Camillo Bill, “so he’s honin’ fer a boiler 
fer to thaw out the gravel with steam!” A general 
laugh followed in which Burr MacShane did not 
join. 

Camillo Bill was the first to notice that the new¬ 
comer’s face had remained grave. “What do you 
think?” he asked, “You know more about the game 
than all of us put together.” 

“Has anyone hit the bottom?” asked MacShane. 

“No one that I’ve heard of, an’ I reckon us fel¬ 
lows right here would be down as far as any.” 

“But, it’s all damn foolishness to be talkin’ about 
a hundred, an’ two hundred, an’ five hundred dollars 
to the pan,” broke in Moosehide Charlie. “Of course 
we’re ridin’ the biggest strike yet—any strike is 
plumb out of reason that pans an ounce. But they 
ain’t no call to go boostin’ it like Gordon. What 
do you think?” 

think,” answered MacShane, “that Gordon has 
hit it about right.” 

A long moment of silence greeted the announce¬ 
ment, during which the sourdoughs stared into each 
other’s faces, and into the face of the speaker. 

Betties was the first to speak. He cleared his 
throat harshly: "‘J^st say that again, will you?” 

“Sure I will. I say, Gordon is right. You’ll all 
see it—an’ it won’t be long till you do. I took one 
hundred and forty dollars out of a single pan last 
evening—an’ I ain’t anywhere near to bed rock.” 


24 


North 


Again, dead silence greeted the announcement, 
until suddenly Moosehide Charlie, filling his lungs, 
let out a whoop, and tried to clamber onto the bar. 
Betties and Camillo Bill jerked him back. 

“Keep still, you fool! Do you want to make a 
panic? Let ’em go ahead with their cards an’ their 
dancin’. What they don’t know won’t hurt ’em 
none, an’ what we do know that they don’t, may do 
us a lot of good.” 

Moosehide subsided, and the few who had paused 
to glance toward the group, resumed their play with 
remarks about “Moosehide feelin’ his oats.” 

Where the prophecy of Old Man Gordon had met 
only with laughter and derision, the same words 
from the lips of Burr MacShane were accorded 
nothing but respect by the men of the high North. 
For these men knew MacShane. His spoken word 
carried weight. And when he said that they would 
see from two to five hundred dollars taken from a 
pan, not a man who heard the words but believed 
implicitly that he would see from two to five hun¬ 
dred dollars taken from a pan. 

“God,” breathed Betties, and there was a nervous 
quaver in his voice,” then we’re a bunch of million¬ 
aires, right here!” 

MacShane nodded: “There’s men in this crowd 
that’ll clean up more than a million—maybe double, 
and treble a million. But you want to remember 
that the gravel is spotted. It ain’t all rich. The 
first hole I put down didn’t show anything better 


25 


In the Big Camp 

than wages at twelve foot. A thousand foot from 
there I panned out one hundred an’ forty dollars at 
five foot. An’ I took out a half an’ ounce at the 
grass roots.” 

Camillo Bill stared at Gordon: “You old son-of- 
a-gun!” he grinned, “Was you guessin’? Or, how 
did you know?” 

“It was a hunch,” replied the old man, “I could 
feel it. As the Gude Book says, it was a vision.” 

Camillo turned to MacShane: “But about the 
boiler ?” he asked, “There ain’t nothin’ in that boiler 
business, is there?” 

“I don’t know anything about boilers,” admitted 
MacShane, “I do know that winter minin’ is so 
damned new that we’d be fools to think we’ve learnt 
all there is to know about it. You can bet that if 
steam thawin’ will work, an’ will save time an’ 
labor, it’s bound to come. Trouble with us is we’re 
plumb ignorant. We’ve got a thing here that’s so 
big we don’t know what to do with it. We can’t 
even realize the bigness of it yet, let alone how to 
handle it. Why, I ain’t even begun to think, an’ 
I can see a hundred ways to clean up big without 
ever puttin’ a pick in the gravel.” 

“What do you mean ?” they cried, crowding close. 

MacShane laughed and waved them back: “Look 
a here you all malamutes an’ sourdoughs I What do 
you think this is, a business meetin’? This here 
is Christmas eve, an’ we’re here to celebrate it. I’m 
goin’ to have another drink, an’ then I’m goin’ to 


26 


North 


dance! Horse Face ain’t woke up yet. Plenty time 
to talk business after a while. Let’s get Horse Face 
where he belongs, an’ whoop her up!” 

Someone called for the drinks, and Old Man 
Gordon drew on his mittens: ‘‘I’m goin’ home,” 

he announced. “Ye young devils can go ahead wi’ 
ye’re hullabaloo. Tomorrow is Christmas, an’ I’m 
goin’ to be sober. The wife an’ kid, ye know.” 

“Wife an’ kid!” exclaimed MacShane, “You got 
a wife an’ kid here in this camp? A kid, did you 
say? A real honest to God little kid?”- 

“You bet he has!” cried a chorus of voices, 
“Purtiest little thing you ever seen,” announced 
Moosehide, “ ’Bout so high, ain’t she, Camillo?” He 
held his hand about four feet from the floor. 

MacShane was looking off across the dance hall. 
“A little kid!” he muttered, “Well, what do you 
know about that?” 

“She’s eleven,” informed Gordon, “An’ she can 
handle a canoe, or a team of dogs like a man. Good 
night, boys. I’m goin’ home. See ye tomorrow.” 


CHAPTER III 


CHRISTMAS 

When the door had closed behind Gordon, Mac- 
Shane drank with the others, and when the glasses 
were returned to the bar, he asked: “How many 
more kids is there here in camp?” 

“No white ones, except Gordon’s,” informed 
Camillo Bill, “There’s a bunch of Siwashes, mebbe 
a dozen or two, countin’ the ones in the camp about 
four miles down river.” 

“White ones or red, it’s all the same,” answered 
MacShane, “What’s the matter with this camp? 
Where’s yer Christmas tree? Yer all dead four 
ways from yer belt! All you’re thinkin’ about 
Christmas is to get a bellyful of hootch an’ raise 
hell! Christmas is, first and foremost, for kids!” 
He vaulted lightly onto the bar and roared for 
attention. The card players paused and the dancers 
stopped in the middle of a waltz. “Come up here, 
you all!” he called, “An’ get you an earful I” The 
crowd surged about the bar, for when MacShane 
had words to say, it was worth their while to listen. 
He stood looking down into the upturned faces, 
some laughing, others waiting in eager expectancy 


28 


North 


for what was coming. For MacShane was not 
given to theatricals. Had anyone else mounted the 
bar the act would have received no more than pass¬ 
ing notice. But MacShane—. He walked the 
length of the board, his moccasins leaving tracks 
upon the polished mahogany. “Tomorrow's Christ¬ 
mas,” he began. “There’s kids in this camp! Real, 
regular kids—one white one an’ a lot of Siwashes! 
What are we goin’ to do about it? Come on, speak 
up! Are you goin’ to let Christmas pass ’em by 
like any other day? Not by a damn sight you ain’t I 
This here camp’s got to start right! This is its 
first Christmas, an’ she’s goin’ to be a regular 
Christmas!” Here and there in the crowd men 
voiced approval. ^ 

“Now you’re talkin’, MacShane!” cried a giS^ in 
a low cut gown of red silk. “Tell us what to do!” 

“A Christmas tree!” suggested some one. 

“What would we put on it?” yelled another, and 
a babel of voices broke out, hurling questions and 
answers. 

MacShane held up his hand for silence: “Where’s 
McCarty?” he asked. 

“Right here!” 

“McCarty, tomorrow mornin’ this dump ain’t 
a saloon. It’s a town meetin’ house, an’ there’ll be 
a Christmas tree in the dance hall for kids! We’ll 
start in at ten, an’ we’ll be through by noon, an’ 
after that we’ll hit the high spots! How about 
it?” 



Christmas 


29 


McCarty caught the spirit: ^^She’s yours!” he 
cried. “Go to it!” 

“So far, so good!” cried MacShane, “An’ now 
for the program: Who’ll go out an’ get a tree?” 

Every man in the house volunteered with a whoop. 
MacShane laughed: “Too many trees! Here you, 
Camillo, an’ Moosehide, an’ you two over there by 
the door, you go get a tree, an’ make it as big an’ 
bushy as will set up in this room. How many stores 
is there ? All right, you Ace-In-The-Hole, an’ 
Betties, you go down an’ find out what they got in 
the way of toys an’ candy.” 

“They’re closed up!” ventured someone. 

“Unclose ’em, then! Tell ’em MacShane says to 
open up an’ stay open till we get this thing fixed up.” 

Other arrangements were discussed, suggestions 
and counter-suggestions coming in an indistinguish¬ 
able jumble of words. 

A wave of fog rolled into the room as the door 
opened: “There ain’t a damn toy in town!” cried 
Betties from the doorway, “An’ only a little candy,” 
supplemented Ace-In-The-Hole. 

MacShane leaped from the bar and made his 
way to the door, the crowd parting to give him 
room. 

“Come on, half a dozen of you packers,” he called 
after him, “We’ll look around a bit.” 

Pushing into the first store where the sleepy pro¬ 
prietor grinned a welcome, MacShane opened up: 
“What kind of a dump you runnin’ here? No toys I 


30 


North 


Who in hell ever heard of a store without toys at 
Christmas? What have you got? There's cran¬ 
berries! Give us ten quarts. An’ all the candy 
you’ve got. Twenty pounds of sugar an’ some 
chocolate. We’ll set some of the girls makin’ candy. 
Got to have dolls. The girls can make ’em, give 
us some cloth, an’ somethin’ for waddin’—an’ 
they’ve got to have dresses. Give us a bolt of 
cloth for dresses—not no squaw cloth, some honest 
to God silk. Ain’t got it! What’s that hangin’ up 
there ?” 

“Them’s silk skirts. The girls buys ’em.” 

“Give us a bunch, assorted colors—red an’ pink, 
an’ blue. Is that all you got? Ain’t you got noth¬ 
in’ for boy kids? Give us some tin pails, then— 
they can pound on ’em for drums. What’s in them 
fancy ^bottles?” 

“That’s perfumery for to sell the girls.” 

“Give it here!” demanded MacShane, “Sell ’em 
a bath tub, an’ they won’t need this. Kids like the 
smell of it. Oh, yes, an’ some candles.” 

“If you want ’em fer a Christmas tree, I ain’t got 
none of them holders.” 

MacShane thought a minute. “Give us some 
clothes pins, we can rig ’em on with them. An’ a 
can of red paint, an’ yellow, an’ blue.” 

“I got red, an’ black, an’ white. No yeller, an’ 
blue.” 

“Give us them, then,” ordered MacShane “an’ 
when you figger up the bill send it to me.” 


Christmas 


31 




Back to the Golden North hurried the men, bear¬ 
ing their booty in their arms. Depositing it upon 
the bar, MacShane mounted beside it. “Now girls, 
it’s up to you! Those that’s handy with needles get 
busy an’ make up a dozen or so of dolls. An’ rip 
up these here silk skirts an’ make clothes for ’em. 
An’ then make some socks an’ bags out of what’s 
left to hold the candy. A couple of you cook up a 
batch of candy—here’s sugar an’ chocolate. That’ll 
keep you all busy. Here you Sourdoughs—some of 
you borrow needles an’ thread from the girls an’ 
string these here cranberries. The rest of us has 

got to whittle out circles, an stars, an’ horses, an’ 

dogs, an’ men, an’ we’ll dip ’em in paint an’ hang ’em 
on the tree. They won’t be fit to handle tomorrow, 
but they’ll shine up bright! Come on up, now— 
one more drink, an’ we’ll all fly at it. When we 

git the tree rigged, we’ll go ahead an’ dance till 

daylight. After that there’s nothin’ goes on here 
till noon, except it’s for the kids.” 

Laughing and talking, they crowded the bar, and 
MacShane who had leaped to the floor, motioned to 
Horse Face. “Come here an’ open your sack,” he 
said. Whereupon MacShane shook some coarse 
gold from his own sack into the other. “You’re on 
shift tomorrow mornin’ to play tunes for the kids,” 
he commanded, “an’ make her talk. Horse Face, 
make her talk!” 

The men returned with the Christmas tree which 
was soon braced and wired into place at one end of 


32 


North 


the dance hall. The dancing girls brought their 
sewing materials down stairs. Someone rustled a 
big pine packing case which was promptly knocked 
to pieces, and the boards distributed among the men, 
who got out their knives and proceeded to whittle 
grotesques shapes of men and fearsome beasts, of 
stars, and crescents, and circles, and hearts, which 
were fantastically painted and hung, by bits of 
cord, upon the tree. Cranl^erries were strung 
in long ropes that festooned the tree in loops and 
graceful curves of gleaming red. And the dolls! 
There were dolls made and dressed that night that 
would have done credit to an artist, and there were 
dolls as ugly and distorted as the lines of a heathen 
god. But the spirit of Christmas was there. Men 
and women did their best, and laughter reigned 
supreme. At the piano Horse Face Joe’s untiring 
fingers swept the keys in crashing volumes of sound 
that roared and reverberated through the room like 
volleys of mountain thunder, to sink suddenly into 
the softest murmurs. Little tinkles and trills of 
purest melody would almost imperceptibly swell into 
rich chords and dreamy soul-gripping strains that 
momentarily stilled the laughter so that men and 
women, with pressed lips, fixed their eyes upon their 
work, or lifting them, stared long at blank walls. 
The mood would change and a galloping, romping 
air would suddenly crash forth to run its course and 
blend into the solemn strains of some half forgotten 
hymn. It was Horse Face Joe’s inspired night. 


Christmas 


33 


Never before had the like been heard, and never 
again would Horse Face duplicate the feat, as with 
closed eyes he sat and toyed with the hearts and the 
souls of the men and the dancing girls who were 
putting the best that was in them into the fashioning 
of playthings and gewgaws that on the morrow 
would delight the hearts of one little white girl and 
many Indian children. On and on he played the 
music that had never been written—music fashioned 
in his own warped brain even as his fingers flew 
nimbly over the keys. 

In and out among the workers moved Burr Mac- 
Shane and McCarty, praising, encouraging, good- 
naturedly ridiculing and bantering the workers as 
they collected the finished products and piled them at 
the foot of the tree. At length the job was done. 
The last doll was finished, the last grotesquely whit¬ 
tled totem received its splotch of color, and the last 
gay candy bag was filled. Horse Face broke into a 
wild whirling fanfare of sound, weird as the scream 
of a Valkyrie, wild as the wolf’s long howl. The 
music ended suddenly in a crash that threatened to 
tear the strings from their moorings, and once 
more laughter reigned supreme, for as MacShane 
and McCarty, standing upon chairs, hung the toys, 
and decorations, and candy bags upon the tree, each 
offering was greeted with loud-called words of 
praise accompanied by boisterous hand-clapping, or 
with howls of derisive laughter as some particularly 
grotesque or misshapen object was displayed to view. 


34 


North 


MacShane glanced at his watch. “Four o’clock!’’ 
he cried, “Swarm to the bar, I’ll buy! From now 
till eight o’clock everyone’s time’s his own—except 
this—no one gets drunk! Anyone caught drunk be¬ 
tween now an’ afternoon’s goin’ to settle with me! 
After the kids get theirs will be time enough for us. 
At eight o’clock we all hit out an’ begin to gather 
kids! Come on, now!” he raised his glass aloft: 
“Dawson’s first Christmas! Drink her down!” He 
emptied his glass at a gulp and grabbing the girl 
nearest him threw her onto his shoulders and made 
for the dance hall. “Speed her up, Horse Face!” 
he cried, as he set his partner upon her feet, “Come 
on, girl, we’ll show ’em how to dance!” 

Horse Face “speeded her up,” and MacShane led 
off in a dizzying, whirling waltz that swung the girl 
from her feet before half the length of the room 
had been covered. Laughing and shouting, others 
joined the sport, and for fiiteen minutes the room 
was a gyrating riot of color as the men outdid them¬ 
selves to whirl their partners clear of the floor, the 
strongest among them, like MacShane, spinning 
them high above their heads as they rotated with in¬ 
credible swiftness. Dance followed dance in a be¬ 
wildering turmoil of fun. There were not girls 
enough to go round and men tying handkerchiefs 
about their sleeves, took the part of girls. 

When a man paired off with one of these pseudo 
girls it immediately became the aim of each dancer 
to whirl the other down, that is, to whirl so rapidly 


Christmas 


35 


that the other, losing all sense of balance, when sud¬ 
denly released, goes staggering foolishly to a fall. 
Many such tilts there were, to the intense delight 
of the spectators, the vanquished one crashing to 
the floor amid cries of “Loser buys! Loser buys!” 
And the loser bought, albeit with one accord they 
drank sparingly, for most of them were light 
drinkers by habit, and of those who were not, none 
cared to be called upon to settle with MacShane. 
For there had been occasions when men had tried 

conclusions with MacShane at close quarters, and 

/ 

rumor of them had travelled the length of the river. 

At five minutes to eight, MacShane whirled down 
McCarty in the last dance of the orgy. Interest 
centered at once upon the two, and soon they had the 
floor to themselves as faster and faster they spun 
round and round to the galloping music of the piano. 
Both were strong as oxen, and both were past 
masters at the game, and when at last MacShane 
suddenly released his grip and staggered backward, 
the crowd burst into a wild yell of acclaim, as Mc¬ 
Carty, his arms clutching at the-air like flails, reeled 
half across the room and sprawled his length at the 
feet of Horse Face Joe. 

“Come on, you snow hounds!” cried MacShane, 
“Out with you! It’s every man out doors! Grab 
every kid you see—big an’ little, red, white, black, 
an’ yellow! Down the river an’ up the river an’ 
get back here by ten! Bust into the cabins an’ 
tepees! You’ve got a free search warrant for kids 1 


36 


North 


Wrap ’em up good, an’ bring ’em along. Tell their 
folks to come too, if they want to—but every kid 
within five miles has got to be brought! Dump ’em 
in here when you catch ’em, an’ go an’ get more. 
The girls will herd ’em till time for the show to 
start. Vamoose, now! Hit the trail 1” 


CHAPTER IV 
A GAME OF CRIBBAGE 

The Indians of the Yukon are a gentle folk, else 
that early morning raid of the sourdoughs had pro¬ 
duced a war. Pouring through the door of the 
Golden North Saloon the men, shouting and laugh¬ 
ing, dispersed in every direction, and in twos and 
threes invaded the habitations of the Indians, who 
had not yet crawled from between their blankets. 
For eight o’clock in the morning in December is not 
yet dawn on the Yukon. 

Few of the men could speak or understand the 
Indian tongue, and few of the Indians could under¬ 
stand English. Vociferous explanations were as 
futile as were the half-hearted, wondering protests 
of the Indians as their children were seized, wrapped 
warmly in the first blanket or robe that came to 
hand, and carried screaming and fighting out into the 
sub-Arctic night. Only slightly reassured by the 
laughter and evident good intentions of the in¬ 
vaders, the parents hastily arrayed themselves in 
their outer garb and followed as rapidly as they 
could, being guided through the darkness by the 
howls and screeches of their kidnapped offspring. 

A stoic your Indian unquestionably is under 


37 


38 


North 


adversity, and much of his life is lived under adverse 
conditions, but the stoicism does not begin at the 
cradle, or more appropriately, at the moss bag, nor 
yet does it begin in early youth, as the men of the 
Yukon learned, when they unceremoniously dumped 
their squirming, squalling burdens upon the dance 
hall floor. And the dancing girls learned it also, as 
in vain they tried to quiet the little savages, and to 
bring about some sort of order from the chaos of 
blankets and robes and screaming babies and fight¬ 
ing children. In fact, they even added their bit to 
the general din: “O-w-ow! You little devil! 
Look out, girls! They bite like a malamute pup!” 

It was Horse Face Joe that finally solved the 
problem, as seating himself at the piano, he struck 
up a rollicking air that stilled most of the voices in 
wonder, and drowned those it did not still—Horse 
Face, and the arrival of the Indian parents, who 
quickly reclaimed blankets and offspring, and 
huddling at the farther end of the room, listened to 
the music in dumb fascination. 

It was nearly ten o’clock when the last cabin had 
been searched and the last protesting child deposited 
upon the floor. Gordon, with his wife and little 
girl, occupied seats of honor near the piano, and 
Burr MacShane, through an interpreter, who had 
been discovered among the Indians, stepped onto the 
floor and endeavored to explain what it was all 
about. Then Horse Face Joe struck up an old 
melody, someone started the words, half familiar, 


39 


A Game of Cribbage 

half forgotten, others joined in, and before they 
knew it every white man and woman in the hall was 
singing as they had never sung before. Louder and 
louder swelled the mighty volume of sound until it 
overrolled and drowned the voice of the piano. 
Reaching swiftly down, MacShane picked up little 
Lou Gordon and stood her upon the top of the in¬ 
strument. Men and girls naturally gravitated to¬ 
ward the music and soon Horse Face Joe and his be¬ 
loved piano with the little girl standing on its top 
like a queen looking down with shining eyes into 
the upturned faces of her subjects, were the centre 
of a close standing group. 

“Give us another!’’ came the demand from a 
dozen throats, as the last strains trailed into silence. 
And Horse Face did give them another, and many 
others. Never was the like seen north of sixty, 
a hundred men and women close crowded about the 
piano singing at the top of their lungs, and at the 
far end of the room the silent, half-frightened 
Indians—and the dance hall floor between. While 
overtowering all presided the great Christmas tree, 
majestic in its sweep of dark green branches, re¬ 
splendent in its outlandish and grotesquely painted 
images, its brilliant hued dolls, its long festoons of 
gleaming red cranberries, and its blazing candles 
whose yellow flames wavered and flickered in the 
billowing waves of sound. 

The last song was sung. The last crashing note 
was sounded upon the piano, and with one accord. 


40 


North 


laughing and jesting among themselves the men and 
the girls made descent upon the tree, and amid 
shouts and laughter began to distribute presents 
from its bountiful branches. ith his own hands 
MacShane picked out the most beautiful doll with its 
dress of flaming red silk, and its cap of blue, and 
its tiny mukluks of yellow, and the biggest bag of 
candy and carried them to little Lou Gordon, who, 
with eyes round with delight, viewed the proceed¬ 
ings from her point of vantage on top of the piano. 
Not a child, even to the tiniest baby but what 
received its present and its box of candy, nor were 
the older Indians forgotten, for when MacShane 
and McCarty saw the influx of parents that followed 
in the wake of their protesting offspring, they 
quietly slipped out and made further purchases at 
the store, with the result that every man received a 
gift of tobacco, and every woman a small package 
of sugar or tea. 

Twelve o’clock struck and the children’s celebra¬ 
tion was over. The Indians were herded from the 
room, and just as Horse Face Joe sank wearily upon 
his piano stool to strike up a lively dance tune, Mac¬ 
Shane stayed him with a wave of his hand. Ad¬ 
vancing to his side he demanded his gold sack into 
which from his own he shook a liberal portion of 
dust, then, with Horse Face’s sack in hand, he 
passed around among the men, and when he returned 
it to its owner it was bulging with dust and coarse 
gold. It was Horse Face Joe’s great Christmas— 


41 


A Game of Cribbage 

and his last. He mumbled awkward words of 
thanks, and struck into a galloping waltz as men 
sought their partners and hurried onto the floor. 
That dance was never finished. The music lagged 
slower and slower to the end in a low rumble of 
protesting chords as the body of Horse Face Joe 
sagged forward upon the keyboard in a deep sleep. 

They carried him to his room, and one of the girls 
took his place. Hours later he awoke, and with his 
bulging pouch made a beeline for the bar. As it 
had been Horse Face Joe’s inspired night, so also 
was it his swan song. Never again did his fingers 
sweep the keys of a piano for with the proceeds of 
his bulging Christmas sack, he stuck steadfastly at 
the bar. Night and day for six days he remained 
gloriously drunk, and upon New Year’s night, which 
was Dawson’s coldest night that winter, he was 
picked up half buried in the snow on Front Street— 
a rigid corpse of ice- 

Christmas night the same group of cronies fore¬ 
gathered at the forward end of the bar, Betties, 
Camillo Bill, Moosehide Charlie, Ace-In-The-Hole, 
and Old Man Gordon, and with them was Mac- 
Shane. 

“What was it you started in to say last night, Mac- 
Shane?” asked Camillo Bill, “About a man’s bein’ 
able to make his everlastin’ stake right here without 
ever puttin’ a pick into the gravel ?” 

“Sure he could,” answered MacShane, with con¬ 
viction. “I could clean up a million here in this 


42 


North 


camp within the next two years, an’ never touch a 
pick or a pan, or chop a stick of cordwood. Any- 
one of us could do it, but I doubt if anyone of us 
will—I know I won’t. It’s simple as A B C spells 
cat. Take town lots, for instance, right here on the 
flat. Have you stopped to figure what’s goin’ to 
happen next spring, an’ next fall ? The news of this 
strike has already hit the outside, and in the spring 
there’ll be the doggondest stampede into the Yukon 
that anyone ever saw. Fifty thousand men will 
come boilin’ in here crazy for gold. They’ve got to 
be fed an’ housed. Lots that you can buy now for 
a few dollars will go to thousands. Buy lots, that’s 
one way. Buy flour an’ sugar, an’ bacon. Ship a 
sawmill in here an’ go to loggin’. Lumber will 
bring anything a man’s mind to ask for it next 
summer. Buy a steamboat an’ run between here 
an’ White . Horse. This stampede’s cornin’ down 
the river. Go up to Lindermann an’ build polin’ 
boats, an’ buy up all the canoes in sight. An’ when 
you get that done, buy claims an’ sell ’em to the 
chechakos, 

“I’m tellin’ you a man can clean up ten dollars for 
every dollar he puts in, an’ turn his money over a 
dozen times in a year. The chances are here, plenty 
of ’em, an’ someone is goin’ to cash ’em in, but I 
doubt if it will be any of us. Trouble with us 
fellows, we ain’t business men—we’re gamblers, or 
we wouldn’t be here. I know how it is with me, 
always wantin’ to see what’s just beyond. I’d rather 



43 


A Game of Cribbage 

make a new strike on some crick that no one had 
ever prospected than stay here an’ work the richest 
claim on Bonanza, or Gold Bottom, or Eldorado. 
Go to it, now! Fve told you how. An’ likewise 
I’ve told you that there ain’t a man here that will turn 
real estater, or storekeeper, or logger, or steamboat 
man. We’re prospectors, that’s what we are— 
gamblers. An’ speakin’ of gamblin’ how about a 
game of stud?” 

“Give us a drink,” demanded Ace-In-The-Hole 
of the bartender, “A drink, and a deck of cards.” 

The men drank, and as Old Man Gordon set down 
his glass, he regarded the others with a frown. He 
had imbibed rather freely during the afternoon and 
early evening, and the strong liquor had loosened his 
tongue: “Ye’ll not get me to risk gude gold on the 
flip of a card!” he exclaimed, with asperity. “Ye’re 
onregenerate sons of Belial! Ye waste ye’re sub¬ 
stance wi’ riotous livin’ an’ harlots, agin the com¬ 
mand of the Gude Book, an’ I’ll have none of it!” 

“Give it to him, Gordon!” laughed Camillo Bill. 

“Tell him where to head in!” cried Betties. 

“He’s a sinful man, ain’t he, Gordon?” encour¬ 
aged Moosehide Charlie, “I bet he ain’t got no soul 
left to speak of!” 

“Who be ye, to be passin’ judgment on a man’s 
soul?” cried Gordon, turning on the speaker, to the 
huge delight of the others. “Ye’re all tarred wi’ 
the same brush, as the Gude Book says. One of ye 
is no better than the others, if as gude! Ye’re 


44 


North 


empty sepulchres full o’ dead men’s bones! Ye’re 
rushin’ hell-bent fer destruction! Ye’re a genera¬ 
tion of vipers!” 

Ace-In-The-Hole turned gravely to the bartender: 
“Don’t give him any more to drink,” he warned, 
“He’s seein’ snakes!” 

“An’ who could see aught else, lookin’ at the likes 
of ye?” retorted the old man, “Snakes an’ serpents 
ye are, layin’ in wait to sting the unwary wi’ the 
turn of a card!” 

“Your’rea gambler yourself,” grinned MacShane, 
“Or you wouldn’t be here. You’re bettin’ your life 
against the gold you expect to take out of the 
gravel.” 

“Wise ye are. Burr MacShane, in the ways of the 
trail, an’ a man ’tis gude to know. But ye’re philo¬ 
sophy is but the babble of a child. ’Tis no gamble 
—the gold ye take out of the gravel. ’Tis fairly 
earnt by the sweat of the brow, an’ by the work of 
the brain. Ye’re poker is a gamble, pure an’ simple. 
The pot ye rake in is not come by by the sweat of 
ye’re brow, nor is it earnt by the work of ye’re brain. 
’Tis luckily won by the foolish turn of a card.” 

“I’ve dealt till I sweat,” retorted MacShane, “An’ 
I’ve sure worked my brains overtime tryin’ to dope 
out whether to call, or raise, or throw ’em away.” 

“Blither, an’ blather!” cried the old man, thor¬ 
oughly roused, now, to his subject. “Give us a 
drink, barkeep, till I blast through the bed rock that 
these skulls are made of, an’ see if there’s a bit 


45 


A Game of Cribbage 

\ 

of a brain below!” He turned again to MacShane, 
“Poker is a gamblin’ game, d’ye hear!” 

“I’ve had an inklin’ that such was the case,” 
grinned MacShane. 

“Ye’ve admitted it, then? There’s hope for ye, 
which is more than I thought. Bein’ a gamblin’ 
game, it’s riotous livin’ for to play it, as the Gude 
Book states plain. It’s a gamblin’ game because 
ye’ve got to have the cards to win. The cards is got 
in the luck of the deal, an’ no amount of work ye 
can do, or thinkin’ ye can do will change the fall of 
the cards.” 

“Then, if a man’s got brains enough, an’ is slick 
enough with his hands to deal crooked, that’s all 
right?” cut in Moosehide, “I s’pose then, he earns 
what he gets?” 

Gordon favored him with a withering glance of 
scorn: “That’s plain thievery,” he roared, “an’ lower 
in the scale even than gamblin’. Poker’s gamblin’, 
because if ye ain’t got the cards ye can’t win,” 
repeated Gordon, with conviction. “Cribbage, now, 
is different. In cribbage the best man wins. Ye’ve 
got to put brains into cribbage, an’ if ye win, ye’ve 
earnt what ye win by the work of ye’re brain.” 

“Poker’s gamblin’, but cribbage ain’t,” laughed 
MacShane, “Is that right, Gordon?” 

“That’s right, an’ gamblin’s an onchristian pas¬ 
time, but it ain’t onchristian to earn gold by the 
honest work of the brain.” 

“You’re crazy as hell! If you don’t get the cards 


46 North 

in cribbage you can’t win any more than you can 
in poker!” 

“Crazy as hell, am I ?” cried Gordon, exasperated 
to the point of smiting the bar with his fist, “An’ if 
ye don’t get the cards ye can’t win! Young man, 
if ye played cribbage. I’d bet ye a thousan’ I can 
beat ye, come the cards as they will! It’s brains 
wins in cribbage, not cards.” 

“Well, I play cribbage a little. I’ll take you up.” 

“Come on, then!” cried Gordon, “Just the two of 
us. Give us the cards. I ain’t a swearin’ man, an’ 
I would not swear at any man of my own word, but. 
Damn ye! as the feller says, I’ll make a Christian of 
ye, if I have to play cards to do it!” 

The two seated themselves at a table, and the 
others crowded close, bent on watching every play of 
the game. “Old Man Gordon’s playin’ cards, an’ 
he’s bet a thousand,” the word passed from lip to 
lip and others joined the group, until the table was 
rimmed with spectators, for never before had any 
man seen Gordon touch a card. 

The game was finished and MacShane won. 
“What did I tell you ?” he said, “I got the best cards, 
so I won.” 

Gordon scribbled the amount of the bet upon a 
leaf from a small note book, tore out the leaf and 
tossed it across the table: “Ye had no better cards,” 
retorted the old man, “Ye outplayed me! Ye only 
beat me by two points, an’ ’twas my own fault. I 
should known better than pair ye’re nine spot, on the 


A Game of Cribbage 47 

second deal, I might have known ye had the third. 
Come on, play again—two thousan’ this time!’' 

MacShane shuffled the cards without a word, 
offered the deck for the cut, and the second game 
began. This game, also, MacShane won. And 
again he called attention to the fact that it was be¬ 
cause he had held the better cards. But the old man 
refused to admit it. 

’Twas my own bad playin^ done it!’’ he retorted, 
gruffly, ‘T ruint a sure ten hand to hold for a pos¬ 
sible twenty-four, an’ I didn’t get the turn so I only 
counted four. Ye beat me by five points. If I’d 
played my sure ten, I’d have won by a point. We’ll 
play again.” Pausing abruptly, he produced his 
note book and tearing another leaf from it, passed it 
across the table. Then he consulted a penciled mem¬ 
orandum. “Ye’ve won three thousan’,” he said. 
“I’ve still got five hundred in dust in McCarty’s safe, 
an’ about two hundred in my pocket. We’ll play for 
seven hundred. I owe no man, an’ I’ll not go in 
debt.” 

MacShane leaned back in his chair and shook his 
head: “Why can’t you be reasonable, Gordon? 
The cards are runnin’ against you. Anyone can 
see that. I don’t want your dust.” 

The old man glared wrathfully across the table: 
“An’ why don’t ye want my. dust ? Ain’t my dust 
as gude as any man’s? Come, play! ’Tis my deal, 
an’ ye won’t be quittin’ wi’out giving me a chance 
to win back what ye’ve won from me!” 


48 


North 


MacShane shrugged: “Deal/’ he said, tersely, 
and picked up the cards as they fell. 

MacShane won, this time by a wide margin, and 
Gordon tossed his gold sack onto the table, and with 
it an order on McCarty for the last of his gold in the 
safe. Then, fixing MacShane with an angry glare, 
he leaned half across the table : “Fll play ye for the 
claim!” he cried. “What’ll ye put against it?” 

“Not one damned cent!” cried MacShane. “I’m 
done.” 

“Ye’d win a man’s dust an’ not give him a chance 
to get it back?” taunted the old man. “'Tis not 
what I expected from a man that’s known as the 
best man in the North! Put up ten thousan’ against 
the claim. It’s worth more than that, from top 
indications. An’ we’ll play for it.” There was 
dead silence among the spectators that rimmed the 
table as they watched with breathless interest the two 
who faced, each other across the board. 

It was not the size of the stakes that interested 
them, for in the early Dawson days, before the in¬ 
rush of the chechakos and tin horns, big games were 
the order, and thousands of dollars in dust and 
markers passed almost nightly over McCarty’s 
tables. Tne interest was in the fact that Old Man 
Gordon was playing, and that in a sudden abandon 
of profligacy he was risking all he owned upon a 
game of cards. For, not a man among them but 
had listened to the old man’s oft repeated tirades 
against the vice of gambling. The interest lay in 


49 


A Game of Cribbage 

this, but to even a greater extent, it lay in MacShane. 
For the unwritten law of the Yukon was plain, need¬ 
ing no interpretation of court to make it under¬ 
stood. If a man sat in a game of cards he stated no 
limit of liability. “Table stakes” and “limit” games 
were unknown. A player stood to lose all he 
possessed. He must not bet beyond the limit of his 
property without the consent of the other players. 
And should a pot in which he was interested be 
forced beyond the value of his property, he could 
call for so much of the pot as had accumulated up 
to that point, all subsequent bets being considered 
as between the other players only. Also, in all fair¬ 
ness, the law decreed that a man should be given the 
chance to win back what he had lost. The practice 
of “making a killing” and quitting a game was 
brought in by the tin horns, with their “table stakes” 
and “limit” games. 

Old Man Gordon was demanding to be allowed 
to win back his loss. And breathlessly the onlook¬ 
ers watched MacShane, for not a man among them 
would have had the nerve to refuse to play. Yet, 
every man among them knew that MacShane did not 
want to win the old man’s claim. It was up to Mac¬ 
Shane. The law was plain, and no man would have 
blamed him had he played and won. But Mac¬ 
Shane, veriest sourdough of them all, chose to dis¬ 
regard the law, and the fact that men knew him for 
what he was gave approval to his decision. 

“This game is over, Gordon,” he stated, quietly. 


50 


North 


I 

“Pm quitting.” And with the words, he pushed 
back from the table and stood up. 

The old man leaped to his feet and faced him, 
shaking with rage: “Ye’re a quitter! The great 
Burr MacShane is a quitter! Bah! Ye’ve be’n a 
big man hereabouts, an’ throughout pretty much all 
the North—but it took Old Man Gordon to find ye 
out! Hereabout, men know ye now for what ye 
are! Ye’ve won thirty-seven hundred in gude gold 
from me—but ye’ve lost more than I have. Burr 
MacShane! I bid ye Gude Night!” 

MacShane listened to the tirade without a word, 
and when the door closed behind the old man, he 
strolled to the bar and presented his slips. McCarty 
weighed out the dust, which was in several small 
sacks. MacShane gathered up the sacks, added the 
one Gordon had tossed across the table, and slipped 
them into his pocket. 

Over a round of drinks, Moosehide Charlie voiced 
the general opinion of the camp: “You done right, 
MacShane. There’s no fool like an old fool. You 
done it for his own good—^but, at that, there ain’t 
many of us would have wanted it to do.” 

Later, MacShane called Camillo Bill and Moose- 
hide to one side: “Where’s this claim of Gor¬ 
don’s,” he asked casually. 

“It’s up the river a little ways, on a crick that 
runs in from the north.” 

“Does he live there?” 

“No, he’s got a cabin here in camp. He’s got a 


A Game of Cribbage 51 

little shack on the claim where he stays part of the 
time.’^ 

“I want you boys to come with me.” 

“Where to?” asked Moosehide, quickly. 

“To Gordon’s claim.” A moment of constrained 
silence greeted the announcement, during which 
Camillo Bill regarded the speaker with steady gaze. 
The more mercurial Moosehide, shifting his weight 
from one foot to the other, was the first to speak: 

“What for?” he asked. 

“Just want to look it over,” answered MacShane. 

“Well, talkin’ about me I’m too busy,” retorted 
Moosehide. “I got you wrong, a while back, an’ I 
guess there’s lots of others did, too. You kin save 
yerself that trip, though. There’s plenty of us here 
that will take Old Man Gordon’s word that his 
claim’s worth ten thousan’. If you want to give 
him a run fer his money tomorrow I guess he’ll be 
able to stack up the dust agin yourn.” And so 
saying, he turned abruptly away. 

MacShane listened in silence, not a muscle of his 
face changing, and when Moosehide had mingled 
with the crowd, he turned to Camillo Bill: “How 
about you?” he asked, in a voice that gave no hint 
of anger. 

Now the first thought that leaped into Camillo 
Bill’s head at MacShane’s words was the same 
thought that Moosehide Charlie had expressed. 
But whether it was because he was slower to jump 
at conclusions or because the thought could not be 


52 


North 


made to tally with his own estimate of MacShane, 
which was, he knew, the estimate of the North, is 
immaterial. Camillo Bill withheld judgment. 

“What do you say?” insisted MacShane, with 
just a trace of impatience in his tone. 

“Let’s go,” answered Camillo, bluntly; and to¬ 
gether the two passed out the door. 


CHAPTER V 

NORTH 

The journey to the Gordon claim was made in 
silence, and in silence MacShane pushed aside the 
poles that covered the mouth of the shaft against 
snow, and dropped lightly in. Peering curiously 
over the edge, by the light of the glittering stars, 
Camillo Bill saw MacShane drop to his knees, thrust 
a hand into his pocket, withdraw a sack of dust and 
methodically sprinkle it into the gravel at the bottom 
of the shaft. Another and another sack followed 
until all the gold he had won from Gordon had been 
returned to the gravel, then, with the aid of the 
windlass rope, he drew himself from the shaft. As 
he stooped to fasten the thongs of his snowshoes 
Camillo Bill’s mittened hand descended upon his 
shoulder with a thump that threatened to send him 
sprawling into the snow: 

“Well, ril be damned! MacShane, I—I—Oh, 
hell! ril be damned!” 

“Um-hum,” grunted MacShane, regaining his 
feet, “I reckon we all will—accordin’ to the preach¬ 
ers. But there ain’t no call to go braggin’ about 


53 


54 


North 


“You son-of-a-gun!” rumbled Camillo Bill, ad¬ 
miringly, “Gawd, Fm glad I ain’t Moosehide!” 

MacShane regarded him with a twisted grin: 
“Moosehide’s all right, accordin’ to his lights,” he 
said, “I ain’t blamin’ him none—an’ you ain’t got 
any call to blame him. You thought the same as he 
did—only you took the trouble to make sure. You 
don’t need to say nothin’ about this. It ain’t no 
one’s business but mine. It was the woman an’ 
the kid—they need the dust, an’ I don’t. Hope the 
old man learnt his lesson, though.” 

“The hell I won’t say nothin’ about it!” cried 
Camillo Bill, “The hell I won’t! It’s too good a one 
to keep. Jest wait till the boys hears about it! 
Moosehide’s prob’ly spilt it all over the place that the 
reason you wouldn’t give Old Man Gordon a run 
for his money was because you wouldn’t take his 
word that his claim was worth what he said it was 
worth without slippin’ up an’ seein’ for yourself. 
You wait an’ see. , I’ll bet you the drinks you won’t 
be near so pop’lar when you hit the Golden North as 
what you have be’n.” 

“I don’t give a damn what they think,” said Mac¬ 
Shane, “Only don’t go gettin’ excited if Gordon 
comes rompin’ in the first time he mucks out his 
shaft, claimin’ he washed four or five hundred dol¬ 
lars out of a pan. I tried to salt her even, but I 
reckon maybe she’s spread a little thick in spots.” 

“Maybe you don’t care what they think, but I do. 
It ain’t you they’d say much to, nohow. There 



North 


55 


ain’t many of ’em would be huntin’ fer a chance to 
mix it up with you. But, me, it’s different. When¬ 
ever you wasn’t around they’d be damnin’ you off 
amongst theirselves, an’ knowin’ what I know an’ 
they don’t. I’d jest naturally have to sail in an’ 
knock hell out of some of ’em an’ there’s some of 
’em that could knock hell out of me if I tried it— 
an’ there you are!” 

MacShane laughed: “You’re all right, Camillo. 
But, anyway, don’t say anything about it till I’m 
out of the country.” 

“Out of the country!” cried Camillo Bill, “What 
do you mean—out of the country?” 

“Plumb out of the Yukon,” answered MacShane, 
“I’m hittin’ the trail. You know how it is with me, 
Camillo. I kind of get tired of a place. An’ be¬ 
sides it ain’t goin’ to be anyways fit to live here as 
soon as spring comes, with the chechakos pourin’ 
down the river, an’ swarmin’ all over the country.” 

“You’re hittin’ the trail,” breathed Camillo, dum- 
founded, “An’ only last night you was tellin’ of 
washin’ a hundred an’ forty dollars to the pan! 
Be you plumb crazy, or what ?” 

“No, I ain’t crazy. Leastwise I don’t call it that, 
an’ I’m the only one that wins or loses by what I 
do. No, it ain’t craziness, it’s jest naturally a hon¬ 
in’ I’ve got to hit the trail—to go places an’ see 
places, that other folks ain’t be’n to an’ seen. It’s— 
say, did you ever hear the opposite word to home¬ 
sick?” 


56 


North 


Camillo shook his head. 

“I mean, it’s like this, some folks get homesick, 
just get to pinin’ an’ mopin’ to get back to the place 
they call home, an’ when they get that way, an’ 
get it bad enough, there ain’t no place else looks good 
to ’em. They’ll quit any job, or whatever they’re 
doin’ an’ hit back home, an’ it don’t make no 
difference if home is a mud shanty. I knew an In¬ 
jun once, he was a harpooner on a whaler, an’ he 
drawed down more money at the end of a voyage 
than all the rest of the Injuns in his tribe thought 
there was in the world. But he got homesick an’ 
quit cold when we run in to Valdez one time. Three 
or fours years later I run onto him way back in the 
Kuskokwim country, an’ he was dryin’ whitefish on 
a rack—but he was happy. He was home, an’ his 
home was a caribou hide stretched over a couple of 
willow sticks. Well, that’s the way with me—only 
just the opposite. I never had any home that I can 
remember. I run away from a foundlin’ home 
when I was somewheres around eight or nine, an’ 
I’ve be’n goin’ ever since. I reckon at first, I 
kep’ on the move because I didn’t want ’em to get 
me an’ take me back there, an’ after a while it got to 
be a habit. Till now it’s got so that after I’ve be’n 
in a place a while, I get homesick for someplace I 
ain’t never seen. I used to try to buck it, but it 
wasn’t any use. I’ve be’n in a lot of good places— 
places that ought to satisfy any man, but I’ve never 
be’n satisfied, an’ it ain’t long till I’d hit the trail.” 


North 


57 


“But, man, the gold! A hundred an’ forty dol¬ 
lars to the pan an’ you ain’t nowheres near the bot¬ 
tom I There ain’t nothin’ like it ever be’n heard of 
before! Where in hell are you ever goin’ to make 
another strike like that?” 

“Maybe I won’t,” replied MacShane, gravely, 
“An’ then, again, maybe I will.” 

“There ain’t nothin’ like it in the world!” 

“Maybe that’s true, an’ maybe it ain’t. There 
ain’t no one can prove it. A year ago there wasn’t 
any such thing as a hundred dollars to the pan in 
the world. Next year or next month, I may be 
takin’ out a thousan’ dollars to the pan, a thousand 
miles from here—an’ I may not be takin’ out 
wages.” 

“Where you goin’, an’ when?” asked Camillo 
Bill. 

“North,” answered MacShane, “That’s all I know 
about it myself. The hunch I’ve got now says 
North, an’ North I go—North to God knows 
where!” 

“When ?” 

“Tonight!” 

“Tonight! Ain’t you going back to yer claim ?” 

“No. The hunch is pullin’ strong. I didn’t 
know when I left I wasn’t goin’ back or I’d have 
brought along some more stuff, but, shucks, there 
ain’t nothin’ there that I can’t get somewheres else, 
so I’ll let her stay.” 

“What you goin’ to do with your claim?” 



58 


North 


“Sell it.” 

“Who to ?” 

‘‘You, if you want it. I’ll give you first chance 
at it. I figure there’s over a hundred thousand in 
the dump, an’ a lot more in the ground—maybe half 
a million, maybe two million, I don’t know.” 

“What do you want for it?” 

“Five hundred thousand.” 

“That’s more than I can swing,” said Camillo, 
regretfully. 

“How much you got ?” 

“Nothin’ to speak of, right now. My dump has 
got a lot of good stuff in it, but I can’t get it out till 
spring. An’ my claim is good for a whole lot more. 
But dumps an’ claims don’t do you any good.” 

“None whatever,” laughed MacShane, “Tell you 
what I’ll do, we’ll go pardners. Bunch the two 
claims an’ you work ’em an’ we’ll pool the dust.” 

“Mine ain’t as good as yours,” said Camillo Bill. 

“I know it ain’t,” agreed MacShane, “But, you’ve 
got the work an’ worry of gettin’ out the dust, an’ 
I ain’t. The difference in what they’re worth will 
be your salary as manager of the concern, see?” 

“Suits me if it suits you,” grinned Camillo Bill, 
“But, at that, I think I’m gettin’ the best end of it.” 

“You’re welcome to it.” 

“Where North you goin’, MacShane?” asked 
Camillo Bill as they drew into the outskirts of the 
camp, “Beyond the daylight?” 

“Yes beyond, an’ way beyond. I’ll most likely 


North 


59 


hit up the Chandalar an cross over to the Koyukuk, 
an’ maybe I’ll stop there an’ maybe I’ll keep goin’. 
There’s a river north of there yet, the Colville, where 
there ain’t no one ever be’n. When your hunch 
says North, you might as well go good an’ damn 
North.” 

“You’ve took a hell of a pick when it comes to 
places to go,” grinned Camillo, “Up there all alone 
in the dark, an’ the strong cold, an’ prob’ly north of 
timber.” 

“I’d just as soon be alone, an’ I ain’t afraid of the 
dark, an’ I don’t mind the strong cold, an’ I don’t 
aim to do any loggin’, so it won’t be so bad. May¬ 
be that’s where I’ll find my thousand-dollar-a-pan 
strike.” 

“Damn sight more apt to freeze to death an’ feed 
the wolves,” replied Camillo Bill, lugubriously. 
“Why in hell can’t you let well enough alone an’ stay 
with yer claim?” 

MacShane smiled: “I just told you why—or, 
tried to tell you. I didn’t expect you’d understand 
exactly. No one does. I don’t understand it my¬ 
self. All I know is, that when a hunch comes to 
hit the trail, I hit the trail—an’ that’s all there is to 
it.” 

“Where you goin’?” asked Camillo Bill in sur¬ 
prise, as MacShane paused and held out his hand 
before the door of the Golden North. 

“I told you. I’m goin’ North,” answered Mac¬ 
Shane, “So long!” 


6o 


North 


*‘But, ain’t you cornin’ in? Ain’t you goin’ to 
say goodbye to the boys?” 

“The boys won’t be particularly glad to see me. 
Moosehide has talked before now. No, I’ll just slip 
down an’ get my outfit an’ pull. So long, pardner, 
I’ll see you again—sometime!” 

“So long!” cried Camillo Bill, his hand meeting 
MacShane’s in a mighty grip, “But, you better wait 
till tomorrow, or today, rather, it’s most two o’clock, 
an’ you didn’t get no sleep last night, an’ you ain’t 
had none tonight.” 

“Plenty of time to sleep where I’m goin’,” 
laughed MacShane, “up there it’s all night.” 

“Good luck to you, you damned old sourdough! 
If I ain’t here when you come back, your share will 
be in McCarty’s safe.” 

MacShane waved his hand, and after watching 
until he was swallowed up in the gloom, Camillo 
Bill opened the door and entered the Golden North 
where he was at once greeted by Moosehide Charlie: 

“Where’s MacShane?” he enquired. 

“He pulled out,” answered Camillo Bill, shortly. 

“Pulled out! Then, he never aimed to give Old 
Man Gordon a run fer his money?” 

“No, he didn’t.” 

“Did he go up an’ snoop around Gordon’s claim ?” 

“Yup.” 

Moosehide sniffed contemptuously: “Ain’t that 
the damndest thing you ever seen a man do?” 

“It were.” 


North 


6i 


‘‘Well, I don’t know as I blame him none fer 
pullin’ back to his claim after the way he done—an’ 
that’s the way most of the boys looks at it. I don’t 
savvy it. If it be’n anyone else but MacShane! 
He’s counted the best man in the North. Betties 
says the only way he kin figger it is that playin’ a 
lone hand as long as he has, it’s mebbe got to him, 
here.” Moosehide touched his forehead signifi¬ 
cantly with his finger. 

“Mebbe it has,” commented Camillo Bill, his eyes 
sweeping the room, “Where’s everybody?” 

“Most of ’em’s gone to bed,” Moosehide replied, 
“An’ I ain’t goin’ to be far behind ’em. Two nights 
hand runnin’ is a little too strong fer me. I got to 
sleep now an’ then.” 

“Me, too,” agreed Camillo Bill, and together they 
left the saloon. 


CHAPTER VI 

CAMILLO BILL AVERTS A STAMPEDE 

Late the following afternoon the festivities at the 
Golden North Saloon were once more in full swing. 
The moccasined feet of the dancers softly scraped 
the floor, there was not an empty chair to be had at 
the poker tables, and the crowd that encircled a 
certain table at the back of the room bespoke play 
of more than passing interest at the roulette wheel. 
Horse Face Joe clung with one hand to the bar and 
voiced in maudlin tones his desire that the other 
occupants of the room should each and several join 
him thither. 

The door swung violently open, and into this moil 
of frivolity burst Old Man Gordon, his eyes wide 
with excitement, his long woolen scarf trailing the 
floor in his wake, his coat open, and one mittened 
hand clutching in a vicelike grip a small mooseskin 
bag. So precipitous had been his entry that he had 
not stopped to remove his snow shoes, the tails of 
which dragged noisi\y across the wooden floor. 

“Shut the door!’' 

“Was you raised in a saw mill?” 

“He was raised on a side hill where the doors 

62 


Camillo Bill Averts a Stampede 63 

shut theirselves !’* These, and other railings from 
the assembled crowd fell unheeded upon Gordon’s 
ears. Someone else closed the door as the old man 
clattered to the bar. 

“What did I tell ye?” he cried, his voice pitched 
high with excitement, “What did I tell ye right here 
in this room? Crowd up here ye malamutes an’ 
look at gold!” As he spoke his mittened hand 
brought the sack down upon the bar with a thud, 
“Weigh her up! Weigh her up an’ tell me I ain’t 
dreamin’! Thirty-two ounces, my scales says— 
five hundred an’ twelve dollars! Every grain of it 
out of one pan, an’ I ain’t only six foot down!” 

Chairs overturned as the players of poker leaped 
from their seats. The music stopped and men and 
women surged in from the dance room, and from 
the roulette wheel, to crowd excitedly about the bar. 
McCarty, himself, weighed the gold. 

“Thirty-two ounces is right,” he announced, in a 
voice that despite himself, trembled slightly. Silence 
greeted McCarty’s words, a silence that the heavy 
breathing only seemed to accentuate, as three and 
four deep, the men and women crowded the bar, 
their eyes on the yellow gold. Of all the people in 
the room, only Camillo Bill remained in his chair 
at a poker table, a grim smile upon his face as his 
fingers idly riffled a deck of cards. 

The voice of Horse Face Joe broke thickly upon 
the silence: “What in hell y’all gawpin’ at ? I got 
more dust’n that. Here, Mac, weigh mine up. An’ 


64 


North 


ril spend 'er too. Or Man Gordon, he wouldn’t 
never set ’em up to the house.” 

The silence broken, a perfect babble of voices 
burst forth. Everyone was talking at once, and 
above the din rose the strident voice of Gordon: 
“An’ only last night I offered to risk the claim agin 
ten thousan’ dollars! Where’s MacShane?” 

“How’d you happen to be workin’ today, any¬ 
how,” inquired Ace-In-The-Hole Brent, “Was it a 
hunch ?” 

“A hunch! A hunch, d’ye say? Aye, it was a 
hunch! A hunch that said I was broke, an’ if I 
wanted maybe a wee bit tipple, or a bite to eat for the 
woman an’ the little lass. I’d better be gougin’ 
gravel.” 

“Hell, man, you could have got all you wanted in 
dust or liquor right here!” exclaimed McCarty. 

“Aye, Mac, I know,” retorted the canny Scot, 
“But, ’twould have to be paid back. ’Twould be 
burnin’ the candle at both ends, as the Gude Book 
says. If I was here borrowin’. I’d be loafin’ an’ 
spendin’, an’ if I was out there in the gravel I 
wouldn’t be spendin’ an’ what I got would be mine, 
an’ nothin’ to pay back later. As it is, I owe no 
man.” 

“Go on! Go on!” came from a dozen throats, 
“It ain’t a sermon we want, it’s facts!” 

“An’ so,” continued Gordon, without deigning to 
notice the interruption, “I hit out gude an’ early this 
mornin’ for the claim, hopin’ to pan out an ounce. 


Camillo Bill Averts a Stampede 65 

maybe two, afore night. I built a gude fire in the 
shaft, an’ in the shack I melted the ice, an’ it was 
along about noon I brought up my first bucket of 
gravel and carried it into the shack. But ’twas not 
till I finished washin’ that I had any idee what I’d 
got!” His voice, which had subsided into some¬ 
thing of its normal tones as he talked, again leaped 
into the falsetto of excitement. ‘‘Ye should have 
be’n there to see for ye’reselves—when the last bit 
of muddy water sloshed from the pan! There was 
no gravel to be seen. Yellow gold—spread even, 
an’ thick! ’Twas like peerin’ into a firkin of butter! 
Losh! I squatted there like a daftie, starin’ down 
into the pan—a minute—ten minutes—mebbe an 
hour. I had no heed of time. Then I weighed up, 
an’ my hands was shakin’ so at first I bungled the 
job. There was flour gold in that pan that I didn’t 
get. It’s layin’ back there on the floor of the shack. 
I got what I could in the sack at last, an’ then I 
started fer here. I’d got mebbe it’s twenty rod be¬ 
fore I bogged down in the snow, an’ I noticed I’d 
forgot my snowshoes, an’ I had to waller back an’ 
get ’em.” 

Across the room Camillo Bill paused in the riffling 
of the cards, and regarded the close-packed crowd 
with a twisted grin: “You c’n take ’em oifi now, 
Gordon. Mac’s floor is toler’ble solid. You won’t 
bog down here.” 

“An’ only last night,” quavered Gordon, “I 
oflfered to risk the claim agin ten thousan’ I Where’s 


66 


North 


MacShane? Where’s the man that wouldn’t put up 
ten thousan’ agin a claim ’twould have paid him out 
in the first twenty pans?” 

From his seat at the table Camillo Bill surveyed 
the scene with interest. He noted that no one was 
paying any attention to Gordon, now. Noted, also, 
a certain restlessness, a tenseness that seemed to fill 
the air, and manifested itself in the quick tying of 
cap strings, and the nervous buttoning of coats. 
Several of the girls who had slipped away un¬ 
observed, reappeared at the foot of the stairs, 
dressed for the trail. Here and there, men were 
drawing on parkas. 

“Fd ort to let ’em go ahead an’ stampede their 
fool heads off,” grinned Camillo Bill to himself. 

“ ’Bout half of ’em thinks MacShane played it 
low down on Gordon, an’ it would serve ’em 
right.” 

There was a sudden concerted rush for the door, a 
rush that seemed to include every man and woman 
in the room except Gordon, and Horse Face Joe, 
who, clutching the bar, blinked in maudlin solemnity 
as he vainly tried to sense the purport of what was 
going on about him. Even the bartenders had tom 
off their white aprons and were frenziedly donning 
coats, caps, and mittens. 

''Hold on!” The voice of Camillo Bill rang 
sharp as the crack of a dog whip. At the door the 
leaders paused, and as a man, the crowd whirled to 
face the speaker. Camillo Bill was standing, now, 


Camillo Bill Averts a Stampede 67 - 

and the twisted smile had widened. The voice of 
Old Man Gordon cut the tense air thinly: 

“ ’Twas the hand of God rewardin’ me for trvin’ 
to bring the Philistine into the fold, even though I 
failed.” 

“It was the hand of Burr MacShane!” roared 
Camillo Bill, “Tryin’ to learn you to leave cards to 
them that knows somethin’ about ’em! You won’t 
wash no ten thousan’ out of yer first twenty pans, 
neither. You’ll wash thirty-seven hundred out of 
’em—that’s what you’ll wash—besides what little 
was in the gravel before MacShane salted it.” 

“Salted it!” 

“What d’you mean—salted it?” 

“What in hell’s cornin’ off here?” The crowd 
surged back, only this time Camillo Bill, and not 
Gordon, was the center of interest. 

“What are you talkin’ about?” 

“Speak up, can’t you ?” 

“What in hell was MacShane doin’ saltin’ Gor¬ 
don’s claim?” 

Camillo Bill’s eyes caught the eyes of Moosehide 
Charlie. For a moment their glances held, and in 
that moment, the latter seemed somehow to shrink 
back, as though he had suddenly divined what was 
passing in Camillo’s brain. 

“I would shrivel if I was you, Moosehide. But, 
MacShane ain’t holdin’ it against you. He’s too big ' 
a man fer that. It’ll learn you mebbe, not to go 
off half cocked, the same way it’ll mebbe learn Gor- 


68 


North 


don that gamblin’ is gamblin’ whether it’s poker or 
cribbage.” He paused and allowed his eyes to 
sweep the crowd of faces before him. ‘‘Most of 
you thought like Moosehide, that the reason Mac- 
Shane wanted to hit out for Gordon’s claim was so 
he could size up whether she was worth ten thousan’. 
Instead of that, he drops down into Gordon’s shaft, 
an’ he pulls out them sacks, an’ goes to work an’ salts 
every last speck an’ grain of the dust he win from 
Gordon back into the gravel. ‘It’s fer the woman 
an’ the little kid,’ he says, ‘They need it, an’ I don’t.’ 
That’s what he says. An’ then he says, ‘You don’t 
need to say nothin’ to nobody about this. Only 
don’t go bustin’ up here on no stampede if the old 
man claims he’s washed four or five hundred dollars 
to the pan.’ ” 

In the silence that followed, Moosehide Charlie 
started for the door. 

“Where you goin’, Moosehide?’’ called Camillo 
Bill. 

The other turned: “I’m headin’ fer MacShane’s.” 

i ' 

he answered. 

“An’ I’m with ye!’’ cried Gordon, who had 
listened, open-mouthed, to the recital, “Losh, what a 
fool a man can make of himself onct he gets 
started!’’ 

“I’d ort to let you both go,” grinned Camillo Bill, 
“The trip would do you good. But, the fact is, Mac- 
Shane ain’t out to his claim.” 

“Ain’t to his claim! Where is he, then?” 


Camillo Bill Averts a Stampede 69 

“He’s hit the trail. He’s kissed the Yukon good 
bye. Last night while chechakos like us was sleep- 
in’ MacShane was a-borin’ a hole through the dark.” 

“Gone!” 

“Pulled out!” 

“An’ him takin’ out over a hundred dollars to the 
pan I” 

“Where’s he gone?” 

“You don’t mean he’s gone—outside! MacShane 
quit the North?” Questions and exclamations 
hurled themselves at Camillo Bill from half a hun¬ 
dred throats, so that it was some moments before he 
could make himself heard; “No, he ain’t gone out¬ 
side. MacShane won’t never go outside. He just 
naturally got homesick for to hit the trail, an’ he 
pulled. It’s gettin’ too crowded for MacShane 
down here. He hit North.” 

“But his claim?” cried Betties, “What about his 
claim ?” 

“We pooled our claims before he left,” said 
Camillo. “Pm workin’ ’em both. We’re pardners.” 


CHAPTER VII 
THE GORDONS HIT THE TRAIL 

With the spring break-up the men of the creeks 
abandoned their shafts and turned their attention 
to sluicing their dumps. The Northland knows no 
gradual merging of Winter into Spring. One day 
it is Winter, and the next day it is Spring—un¬ 
equivocally, and undeniably Spring. Here is no 
half-hearted surrender of the Frost King after 
weeks of dawdling effort to maintain his sway. For 
here he fights in his own fastness—fights with un¬ 
abated fury to maintain his iron grip on the frozen 
land—fights to the last gasp with no sign of weaken¬ 
ing. For only at the point of utter annihilation does 
he yield up his sceptre to Spring. 

Water from melting snows trickles down the 
sides of the mountains, pours from the mouths of 
“dry washes,” and rushes in leaping torrents over 
the surface of ice-locked creeks. The thick creek 
ice, loosened by the torrent, lets go in places and 
allows the surface water to get beneath it- Scattered 
cakes float down on the flood. More cakes, and 
more, until the whole surface becomes a mass of 
grinding, whirling cakes. Jams form at bends 

70 


The Gordons Hit the Trail 71 

and upon the shallows, ice cakes up-end, leap clear 
of the water to be forced higher and higher by the 
grinding, battering impact of other cakes. Behind 
these jams the water rises, bursting from the creek- 
beds in a hundred places, overflooding lowlands, 
cutting new channels, but rising always until at last 
the high-flung mass of cakes can no longer with¬ 
stand its weight, and with a mighty roar the jam 
lets go, the whole mass of grinding, crashing cakes 
rides the crest of the suddenly released flood to crash 
into the next jam. 

It was after the run-out of ice cakes that the work 
of sluicing began. The men of the creeks worked 
that spring with an air of tense expectancy. What 
would the “clean-up” show? Men knew that the 
strike was rich, the test pans had showed that. But, 
how rich ? All day long, in rapidly lengthening days 
the sourdoughs toiled wet to their middles in snow 
water to answer that question. For the “clean¬ 
up” is the harvest of the gold diggers. And the 
clean-up that year was big. Work on the frozen 
dumps had scarcely started before men knew that 
the prediction that they were riding the richest 
strike yet made was an established fact. Rumor 
piled upon rumor as the dust poured into the camp. 
Dawson real estate increased in value by leaps and 
bounds. McCarty, his safe full to overflowing, 
was forced to decline storage room for the dust 
that poured in from the creeks. 

Summer brought the first rush of the chechakos. 


72 


North 


Down the Yukon they came in canoes, in boats of 
every shape, kind and description, on rafts and on 
anything that by any possible act of manipulation 
could be made to float. They swarmed the camp 
and spread out into the hills. Stampedes were of 
daily occurrence. Every creek, and feeder, and pup 
was staked from rim to rim—and still they came. 
Although wages were high, few of that first onrush 
were content to work for wages. They heard the 
stories of gold, gazed with blazing eyes upon coarse 
gold in the scales, saw men shake raw gold from the 
mouths of sacks in payment for drinks at the bar, 
and straightway they headed into the hills. It was 
pitiful, but there was none to pity. The newcomers 
looked on and did likewise, and the sourdoughs 
looked on, and grinned. Their fortunes were as¬ 
sured, and they knew that in the fall laborers would 
be plenty. 

As MacShane had predicted, however, not all of 
the sourdoughs sluiced great wealth from their 
dumps. A few there were who struck it big, count¬ 
ing their dust in hundreds of thousands, many 
counted in thousands and tens of thousands, and 
many more found that their dumps had yielded 
scarcely better than wages. 

Among these latter was Old Man Gordon. The 
pay streak on his claim turned out to be all in the 
grass roots, that is, the only gravel that was really 
worth working lay close to the surface. His whole 
dump averaged better than wages, but the lean 


The Gordons Hit the Trail 73 


gravel thrown from the deeper half of the shaft 
showed that the pay streak would peter out long 
before bed rock was reached. 

By the time Gordon discovered this fact the 
chechakos had already staked the country for miles 
around, and although he located several new claims, 
he failed to strike anything that showed. 

For three years he stayed by his claim, getting 
what there was on the surface by top stripping, and 
only now and then sinking a shaft in hope of hitting 
a lucky spot on the lower level. 

Then, he sold out for a few hundred dollars to a 
chechako and procuring a poling boat drifted north¬ 
ward down the great river. For another year he 
sniped on the Birch Creek bars, and then hearing 
whispers of a strike on the Koyukuk, he once more 
loaded his wife and child into a poling boat and, 
dropping down the Yukon to the mouth of the 
Koyukuk, spent an entire summer in ascending six 
hundred miles of its course that lay between the 
Yukon and the newfound placers. 

It was gruelling and laborious work, track lining 
and poling the heavily loaded boat against the swift 
and treacherous current of the Koyukuk. And it 
was work that all three shared equally. For Lou, 
a lithe bodied, rather ungainly young miss of fifteen, 
who seemed somehow to be mostly legs and arms, 
and the legs and arms all muscle, did a man^s work 
every day. Nor was her mother far behind her in 
the matter of handling a pole or paddle, or pulling 


74 


North 


on the track line. They were in the land of the mid¬ 
night sun, now, and the continuous daylight was a 
source of never-ending wonder to the girl. Nor was 
the actual visualizing of the phenomenonp^ny the less 
wonderful because she could demonstrate the text 
book explanation for it. For, despite the fact that 
her life had been spent entirely in the remoter out- 
lands, yet she had suffered not one whit in any detail 
of her education. For her mother had been an apt 
pupil of a famous old mission school on the Mac¬ 
kenzie, and she took a great pride in passing the 
education she had gained on to her little daughter. 

They were a happy family—the Gordon’s. Sim¬ 
ple and God-fearing in their belief, and simple and 
contented in their manner of life. For them the 
semi-nomadic life of the Northland was no hard¬ 
ship. It was merely the accepted fact of a normal 
existence. When the luck of the early Dawson days 
piled up a small surplus of dust, they accepted their 
good fortune with unboastful equanimity, and later 
when the claim petered out, and the high prices 
drained their little surplus, they accepted the reverse 
of fortune with philosophic stoicism. As their daily 
lives were sternly ordered by the vicissitudes of a 
stern land so was their religion a stern and unflexi- 
ble code of laws. The much thumbed Bible that 
Gordon read daily was the dictated word of God, 
and as such was to be believed literally, word for 
word. The code of law set down in the Gude Book 
was the code of law subscribed and authorized by 


The Gordons Hit the Trail 75 


God. Any act not in accordance with this code was 
therefore sanctioned and authorized by the devil. 
Gordon feared God, and hated the devil. Yet, such 
was the austere honesty engendered by this implicit 
belief in his austere code, that had necessity com¬ 
pelled him to have had any dealing with the devil, 
he would punctiliously have rendered the gentleman 
of darkness his due, even to the uttermost farthing. 
For it was his pride, and the pride of his wife, and 
the inborn pride of his daughter that they owed no 
man. At least, this had been their pride up to the 
moment that Camillo Bill told him that MacShane 
had salted the gold he had won at cribbage into the 
gravel at the bottom of the shaft. From that mo¬ 
ment Gordon knew, and his wife knew, and in a 
vague sort of way, the little Lou sensed, that no 
more could they say they owed no man. 

Not that they considered themselves debtors to 
MacShane in the sum of the thirty-seven hundred 
dollars which he had won, and had seen fit to return. 
The dust was his to do with as he pleased, and the 
fact that he had pleased to return it to its original 
owner created no obligation on the part of that 
owner. No, it was no money debt—this debt that 
the house of Gordon owed to Burr MacShane. It 
was a moral debt. 

When Gordon had denounced MacShane, as he 
rose from the card table and refused to continue the 
play, he had honestly believed that MacSh? le was 
deliberately refusing him the chance to win back, 


76 


North 


‘^earn back,” as Gordon would have it, the money 
he had risked in an honest endeavour to show that 
same MacShane the error of his ways. When 
Camillo Bilks explanation of the sudden wealth he 
had found at the bottom of his shaft, had convinced 
him of MacShane’s honesty in his refusal to con¬ 
tinue the game, and his subsequent generosity in the 
disposal of the dust, even in the face of public de¬ 
nunciation and insult—from that moment Gordon 
found himself obsessed by a sense of debt. He 
owed MacShane an apology. And until he should 
meet MacShane and offer that apology, he was Mac- 
Shane’s debtor. 

With the words of Camillo Bill ringing in his 
ears, Gordon had that evening quitted the Golden 
North Saloon, and had gone straight to his cabin, 
and had laid the whole matter before his wife and 
daughter, nor had he spared himself in the telling. 
What one Gordon owed, all Gordons owed, there¬ 
fore his debt became their debt. From the cabin 
he had returned to the Golden North and publicly 
had denounced himself even more bitterlv than he 
had, the previous evening dei)ounced MacShane. 
Thus, having made all amends within his power, 
with a clear conscience, he bided the time when he 
should meet MacShane. Nor was he lacking in dili¬ 
gence in his endeavor to locate him. No traveler 
from the North crossed his path, but was asked the 
same question; “Have ye run acrost Burr Mac¬ 
Shane?” And, always the answer had been, “No.” 


The Gordons Hit the Trail 77 


It was the same as he floated down the Yukon, 
and while he worked the Birch Creek bars, always 
the same question, and always the same answer, and 
it was the same upon the Koyukuk. 

Small chance for inquiry though, they found 
upon the Koyukuk, two prospectors at the mouth 
of Hog River, and another one further along, were 
w’orking the bars with indifferent success. One of 
these, the lone prospector of the upper bar, an old 
man, had known MacShane years before on the 
Kuskokwim, but had not run across him since. At 
Bergman the Commercial Company’s agent had 
known him on the Lower Yukon. At Moses’s Vil¬ 
lage, the largest native town on the river, several of 
the Indians knew him, but could not, or would not, 
give any information as to his present whereabouts. 
At Betties, the head of shallow draught steamboat 
navigation the Gordons remained for three weeks, 
the women resting while Gordon prospected several 
likely looking creeks. But the creeks had all been 
prospected before, so the laborious up-river journey 
was resumed, with the new camp of Coldfoot as 
their objective, seventy-five miles to the northward. 


CHAPTER VIII 
COLDFOOT 

At last, at the end of a long day’s toil, the trio 
beached their boat on the shallows, and pitched their 
tent on the outskirts of the new camp that had 
sprung up on the flat at the mouth of Slate Creek. 
They had arrived at Coldfoot, the most northerly 
gold camp in the world. 

Supper over, Mrs. Gordon surveyed the cluster 
of low log buildings, and canvas tents: ‘‘Surely, 
Stuart,” she said, reflectively. “We’ll find Burr 
MacShane here.” 

Her husband shook his head: “An’ why d’ye 
think we’ll be findin’ him here?” he asked. 

“Why because Coldfoot is the very last camp. If 
he headed North, he’s bound to be here. There is 
nothing beyond.” 

Gordon smiled: “Aye, but ye do not know 
MacShane. Camps are nothin’ to him. He knows 
the North as no other man knows it, an’ always he 
plays a lone hand. ’Tis not because he does not like 
man, or the company of his kind, for he does. 
Everywhere, by white men, an’ by red men alike, 
he is held in regard. An’ when he foregathers with 
men he is the life of the camp. It was him, d’ye 

78 


Coldfoot 


79 


mind, that planned an’ carried out the Christmas ye 
had that year in Dawson.” He turned to the girl 
who had been listening. “An’ ’twas him that lifted 
ye in his two hands to the top of the piano, the 
better ye could see, an’ ’twas him that give ye the 
doll, the prettiest doll of the lot it was, an’ he picked 
it out for ye.” 

Lou smiled, “I have the doll yet,” she said, “And 
I remember that a big man picked me up and stood 
me on the piano, but I can’t remember his face. It 
must be awfully lonesome for him—to be always 
alone.” 

“It is too bad he has never married,” said Mrs. 
Gordon. “A man like that would make some woman 
a good husband.” 

“Losh, woman!” cried Gordon, “An’ who 
would he marry? Who are the women he knows 
—Injun squaws, Eskimo klooches, an’ the strumpets 
of the dance halls! MacShane would have none of 
them. For, he’s clean.” 

“He must get his supplies at Coldfoot,” said 
Mrs. Gordon, “There is no place else.” 

“Aye, but ye must remember there was no Cold¬ 
foot when he passed this way, if he ever passed.” 

“What do you mean, if he ever passed?” 

“I mean that the Koyukuk is not the only river 
that lies North from the Yukon. There are many. 
An’ knowin’ MacShane by his reputation on the trail, 
he may be this minute anywhere between Hudson 
Bay an’ Bering Sea. An’ even if he traded in 


8o North 

Coldfoot today, he might do his next tradin’ at 
Fort MacPherson.” 

“Oh, I wish we could find him and thank him 
for—what he did.” 

“Aye, woman,” answered Gordon, heavily, “I’ve 
sought him this long time. My humility weighs 
heavy upon me. But, as the Gude Book says, 
‘Everything comes to him who waits.’ ’Tis doubtless 
the Lord’s will I should carry my load long.” 

Inquiry at the Commercial Company’s store 
revealed the fact that only two months before 
MacShane had come into camp from the north¬ 
ward, remained for several days, and purchasing 
supplies, had suddenly pulled out. 

“An where did he hit for ?” asked Gordon. 

“Lord knows, I don’t. Myrtle Creek, maybe. 
That’s where most of ’em are hittin’ for now. 
There has be’n some pretty good sacks of dust 
brought down off of Myrtle this summer. Goin’ to 
locate ?” 

Gordon nodded: “Aye. An’ can ye tell me how 
I’ll reach Myrtle Crick?” 

“Sure, just follow up Slate Creek, an’ it’s the 
third creek that runs into it.” 

“Maybe it’s all staked?” 

“No, it ain’t, there’s plenty of room there yet. 
They ain’t so many of us up here, you know. It 
ain’t like the Yukon. The chechakos an’ the riff¬ 
raff don’t hit Coldfoot. This here country is a heap 
too skookum fer their blood. Betties catches about 


Coldfoot 


8i 


the last of them, an’ they don’t stay there long. 
They hit back to the Yukon where they got mpre 
chanct of winterin’ through. They ain’t got no 
guts fer the long night an’ the strong cold. This 
here is a man’s country.” 

“An’ Myrtle Crick,” persisted Gordon, “Is there 
timber for cabin logs ?” 

“Yes, plenty timber for cabin logs. It ain’t what 
you’d call big timber or nothin’, an’ it’s kind of scat¬ 
terin’ like, but you’ll find patches here an’ there 
that’ll do. Now, how about your outfit?” 

“I’ll be needin’ grub,” answered Gordon, “The 
rest I brought with me. I came up from the Yukon 
in a polin’ boat.” 

“In a polin’ boat!” exclaimed the trader, “Alone!” 

Gordon smiled: “No, there’s three of us, my 
wife an’ daughter.” 

“Wife an’ daughter! An’ come clean up from 
the Yukon in a polin’ boat!” 

“Aye,” answered Gordon, “ ’Twas a considerable 
chore.” 

“An’ he calls it a chore,” muttered the trader, 
“Like feedin’ the dogs, or cuttin’ firewood! An’ a 
hell of a lot of ’em thinks they be’n somewhere’s 
when they come up to Betties on the steamboat an’ 
shove a polin’ boat the rest of the way!” He sud¬ 
denly thrust out his hand, “Grim’s my name, old 
timer, an’ I’m proud to meet you. The boys’ll all 
be proud to know you, here on the Koyukuk. You’re 
our kind.^’ 


6 


82 


North 


'‘Mine’s Gordon,” replied the Scotchman, and 
for the next hour Gordon and Grim were busy with 
the grub list. When the last item had been stacked 
up and the list checked, Gordon drew out his gold 
sack. “We thought prices was high in Dawson,” 
he said, as he balanced the sack in his hand, “But 
nothin’ as high as here.” 

“No. Coldfoot’s the farthest north gold camp in 
the world, an’ she’s the most expensive. These here 
shallow draught steamboats that runs up as far as 
Betties can’t fetch up no hell of a load of freight, 
an’ they ain’t afraid to charge fer what they do haul, 
an’ on top of that it’s all got to be man-hauled in sum¬ 
mer, an’ dog-hauled in winter fer the seventy-five 
mile between here an’ Betties. An’ all that freightin’ 
has got to be added onto the Yukon prices.” The 
man paused and his glance traveled from Gordon’s 
gold sack to his face. “You can put that up,” he 
said, “These goods is charged.” 

“But—you don’t know nothin’ about me. An’ 
besides, I don’t like to be in debt. There’s dust 
enough here to pay.” 

The trader nodded: “There is. But how about 
dogs? You didn’t bring dogs, did you? An’ as fer 
the rest, I know all I need to know about you. 
That’s what the Company pays me fer—to size up 
men. This here will run you till Christmas, then 
you can come back fer more. An’ remember this, 
Gordon, the Koyukuk diggin’s is spotted. You 
might strike it lucky the first crack out of the box. 


Coldfoot 


83 


an’ you might prod around fer a long while ’fore you 
strike it, but it’s here, an’ sooner or later you’ll 
win.” 

“How about MacShane ?” inquired Gordon, “Has 
he struck it, yet?” 

“MacShane,” the other smiled, “You can’t never 
tell nothin’ about Burr MacShane. I know’d him, 
it’s years ago on the Lower Yukon. He might of 
mushed five hundred mile to get that grub. Mac¬ 
Shane ain’t on Myrtle. It’s a way I’ve got—not 
tellin’ a party where another party is, till I’ve got the 
party sized up. But, fact is, I don’t know where 
MacShane come from, nor where he went. Wisht I 
did.” 

“Why?” asked Gordon. 

“Well, it’s like this. I’ve knocked around quite 
a bit, take it first an’ last, tradin’ on my own hook, 
an’ tradin’ fer the Company, an’ I kin most generally 
always tell from the gold in the blower where it 
come from. You’ve noticed the difference. Take 
the gold from the middle Yukon—Circle, an’ Forty- 
mile, an’ around the Chandalar, it’s light colored 
gold. The up-river gold is darker, an’ the Koyukuk 
gold is light colored again. But, MacShane’s gold 
—it was red—reddest I ever seen. It wasn’t no 
Myrtle Creek gold, nor yet gold from anywheres 
that’s ever be’n prospected before.” 

“But, he must of got it along the river, or some 
crick that runs into it,” argued Gordon. “He 
couldn’t pack no supplies off the river in summer.” 


84 


North 


The trader laughed: “MacShane can, an’ he did. 
He’s be’n in the country long enough to be onto all 
its curves. He was Siwashin’ it. Said it was 
the first time he’d seen a camp fer a year an’ a half. 
Didn’t know there was a camp here even. He was 
hittin’ fer Betties. Yes, sir, MacShane comes nearer 
to livin’ off the country than any white man I ever 
seen. Why the stuff he got wouldn’t last an ordi¬ 
nary man three months, an’ I bet he can make it do 
fer two years.” 

“But how did he get the stuff off the river?” 
persisted Gordon. 

“Back packin’, him an’ his dogs both. Yes, sir, 
he had fourteen dogs, an’ he’d ripped up an old tent, 
or a tarp an’ rigged pack sacks for ’em—that’s 
Siwashin’ for you!” 

“Aye, he’s a man!” agreed Gordon. “If he comes 
in again, tell him Old Man Gordon wants to see 
him.” 

“I’ll tell him,” answered the trader, “But I ain’t 
lookin’ for him back. Leastways, not fer a year 
or two.” 


CHAPTER IX 


ON THE KOYUKUK 

On Myrtle Creek, six miles above its mouth, the 
Gordons selected a cabin site, close against the 
shoulder of a mountain, where a thicket of spruce 
promised some protection against winter gales. And 
it was in the building of this cabin that they came 
first to realize the real comradery, the esprit de corps 
of the men of the Koyukuk. For the two or three 
hundred white men who live upon the Koyukuk and 
its tributaries, all but a half dozen of whom are 
grouped far within the Arctic Circle, more than six 
hundred miles above the river’s confluence with the 
Yukon, and isolated as few other camps in the 
North are isolated in the land of the strong cold and 
the long dark, count themselves more a family than 
a community. A man strikes it lucky, and the whole 
Koyukuk rejoices. Another meets misfortune, 
disease or accident, and down he goes for medical at¬ 
tention—Fairbanks—Vancouver—Seattle—and the 
Koyukuk pays the bills. And in no other gold camp 
in the world is it the common practice wl||n a man 
''goes broke” for another more fortunate than he 
to invite him to "take yer pan an’ go down on my 
claim an’ git out what you need.” 

85 



86 


North 


And so, in the building of the cabin. Hardly had 
Gordon felled the first tree when he was suddenly 
confronted by a bearded giant whose faded overalls 
were tucked into a pair of rubber boots: ^‘Hello, 
neighbor!’^ greeted the man, “Coin* to locate? 
That’s good. Fm Pete Enright, half a mile up the 
creek.” 

“Gordon’s my name, Old Man Gordon, they call 
me down Dawson way. Yes, guess Fll try my luck 
here.” 

“She’s spotted, Gordon, remember she's spotted. 
Lots of gold if you can only find it. Don’t git down¬ 
hearted. She’s here, but she lays in pockets.” 

Attracted by the sound of voices, Mrs. Gordon 
and Lou appeared from the little tent pitched close 
beside the creek. 

“Well, for gosh sakes!” cried Enright, staring in 
surprise at the two. “Ladies! Real white ladies on 
Myrtle!” 

“My wife an’ daughter,” introduced Gordon, 
“This is Pete Enright, our neighbor just above.” 

“You all’s skookum, all right. First ladies on 
Myrtle, almost the first on the Koyukuk. No wonder 
you didn’t stick around Dawson. They tell me the 
whole Yukon country is gummed up with shorthorns 
an’ checJiakos, till a man ain’t got elbow room for to 
swing a pick. You all’s moose chewers all right, an’ 
you jist nach’ly had to come where the moose 
chewers is. Well, I got to go. So long, folks, see 
you agin. Don’t cut ’em too long, Gordon. Little 


87 


On the Koyukuk 

cabins is easier het than big uns. She gits away 
down there when the strong cold’s on. Fifty below 
is common, sixty ain’t nothin’ to brag about, an’ 
they claim she’s hit way below seventy. My ther¬ 
mometer thicks up so’s she ain’t no good at sixty- 
seven, an’ I know she gits colder, but I can’t measure 
it. The cold’s all right when yer fixed fer it. But 
she’s God’s own country—no shorthorns nor 
chechakos —plenty room to move around in. So 
long.” 

The man disappeared as abruptly as he had 
appeared. The three Gordons smiled. “Nice and 
hearty for a neighbor,” said Mrs. Gordon. “Down 
below, the way it is now, if we’d have located 
within half a mile of one of those chechakos, he’d 
have been growling about our crowding in on him.” 

“Different breed of pups up here,” replied her 
husband. “All malamutes an’ huskies—no mongrels.” 
The women returned to their duties about the tent, 
and Gordon resumed his chopping. 

It was nearly noon the next day when eight men, 
headed by Pete Enright, threaded their way through 
the spruce timber, and came to a halt before Gordon. 
Each man carried an ax. “Hello, Gordon!” En¬ 
right greeted, and turned to his followers. “Boys, 
this here’s Old Man Gordon, I was tellin’ you about.” 
He proceeded to introduce each man by name, and 
when he had finished, addressed them. “All right, 
boys, go to it! 

“Wouldn’t make it no bigger’n ten by twelve, 


88 


North 


Gordon. Mine’s six by eight—warm as hell, but no 
room. There’s only one of me, though.” 

At Enright’s bidding, the men scattered about the 
timber and soon Myrtle Creek rang to the song of 
axes. 

‘‘Where’d they all come from?” asked Gordon, as 
Enright sank his ax to the helve into a standing tree. 

^‘Come from? They’re all Myrtle Creekers. I 
mushed on down the creek an’ gathered ’em up. 
The Slate Creek boys’ all be growling ’cause I didn’t 
let them in on it, but, shucks, there’s enough of us 
here to roll up the cabin, an’ chink it an’ throw up a 
dog shelter, an’ cut yer winter’s wood in a couple 
days or so.” 

“I’m sure obliged,” said Gordon, “I’ll slip over to 
the tent an’ tell ma to cook up an extra batch of 
grub.” 

“Not by a damn sight!” cried Enright. “We 
didn’t come up here to eat off’n you all. We come 
to roll up a cabin. An’ we packed our own grub.” 

“I’ll not permit it!” cried Gordon. “Ye’ll eat my 
grub, or ye’ll not work on my cabin! Who d’ye 
think I am to-” 

Enright laid a huge hand on Gordon’s shoulder, 
“Hold on, Gordon,” he said, “You listen to me. 
You ain’t on the Yukon, now—you’re on the 
Koyukuk. Our ways is a little different here, than 
some other places. But there’s reasons for it. Take 
this grub business. It’s a hell of a job to pack grub 
up from Coldfoot. You’ve figgered yer grub to 



89 


On the Koyukuk 

run you till a certain time—everyone does. Of 
course if it was only one man, fer a few meals it 
wouldn^t cut no figger. But there’s eight of us fer 
may be three or four days, an’ we ain’t what you 
might say light eaters. Anyhow we’d make a hell 
of a hole in any man’s grub pile. Now, we’d all be 
eatin’ our own grub anyhow so it’ll last as long as 
it was figgered to last. Hell, man! You might 
better roll up yer own cabin than be et out of grub. 
On the Koyukuk we like to do one another a good 
turn. An’ when we do we don’t want no half ways 
about it, neither. All we got up here is each other.” 

Four days later the eight men returned to their 
claims, leaving the Gordons in possession of the 
largest and most completely equipped cabin on 
Myrtle. Ten by twelve, it stood at a sharp bend of 
the creek surrounded by the thicket of spruce, all 
chinked, banked, and furnished, even to a rocking 
chair which one of the men had devised for the 
comfort of Mrs. Gordon. Nor did the cabin alone 
bespeak the handiwork of the miners, for con¬ 
veniently grouped about it were an ample dog 
shelter, a pole meat cache, and a huge pile of dry 
wood, all chopped and ready for the stove, a reserve 
supply against the coming of the strong cold. 

During the fall Gordon prospected the bars up 
and down the creek, staking several likely locations 
and panning, before the freeze-up, considerably 
better than wages. 

When snow fell two men on Slate Creek “went 


90 


North 


pardners,” and having no use for two dog outfits, 
Gordon bought a team of six good dogs and a sled. 
Then he and Lou took the outfit and struck into the 
hills for caribou, returning a few days later with six 
fine carcases which were hoisted onto the meat cache. 

The days rapidly shortened, and with the long 
nights came the cold. Gordon was burning in, now, 
on a bar close to the cabin. Each day at noon the 
sun hung lower and lower in the heavens, his rays 
weakened, and the shadows lengthened upon the 
snow. At last came the day when sunset followed 
sunrise with no interval of time between, and there¬ 
after for many long days the only sunlight to be seen 
was the noontime gilding of distant mountain peaks. 
Daylight came to mean dim twilight, and a great 
deal of Gordon’s work was done by the light of the 
moon and stars. 

But he worked with a will, for his frequent test 
pans showed that he had struck pay. Lou helped, 
even with the cutting and carrying of cordwood to 
keep up the fire that thawed the gravel, and when she 
was not at her father’s side she was off in the hills 
with the dogs and her little twenty-two rifle with 
which she added no small contribution to the family 
larder in the way of rabbits and ptarmigan. As 
Gordon chopped his wood, and laboriously man- 
hauled it on a rude travois to his workings, as he 
tended his fire, and as he shoveled out his layer of 
thawed gravel, his thoughts were always upon the 
time when he could afford a ‘‘b’iler” to loosen his 


91 


On the Koyukuk 

gravel with steam. The boiler got to be an obses¬ 
sion. He talked boiler for hours on end to his wife 
and daughter, and he talked it to the men of Myrtle 
and Slate Creeks when chance threw them together. 
In vain the men argued that the cost of bringing a 
boiler into the Myrtle Creek country would be 
prohibitive, and that even if one were brought the 
spotted nature of the workings would necessitate its 
frequent removal to new locations. But Gordon 
remained obdurate. And amused, the men went 
their ways and among themselves dubbed him 
Bhler Gordon. 

At Christmas time the Gordons made the trip to 
Coldfoot, as did most of the inhabitants of the 
creeks, for the midwinter trading. Beside the white 
people there was a goodly sprinkling of Indians and 
Kobuk Eskimos whose chief aim in life seemed to 
be to squat upon the floor of the trading room and 
listen with unconcealed delight to the scratchy music 
that wheezed from the horn of a cheap phonograph. 
The fact that they understood no word of the rag¬ 
time songs and talking records seemed to detract in 
no slightest particular from their delight, as over 
and over again the dozen or more badly worn 
records were proudly fed into the machine by one of 
their number who had been instructed in its manipu¬ 
lation. 

Being the only white women with the exception of 
the dancing girls, Mrs. Gordon and Lou were the 
invited guests of the trader’s wife. The men 


92 


North 


foregathered in the saloon which, with its dance hall, 
divided honors equally as to popular diversion, 
with the evening meeting conducted in the trading 
room by an itinerant missionary. 

Two or three days would ordinarily have sufficed 
for the midwinter trading and its attendant social 
activities, but upon Christmas day the strong cold 
fastened upon the Koyukuk. The thermometer, 
which up to that time had hung between forty below, 
and ten above zero, on Christmas day dropped sud- 
dently to sixty below. On the day following it was 
still sixty, .and thereafter for ten days the warmest 
record was fifty-four below. 

The men of the creeks waited for a let-up. There 
is a saying in the North that trailing at fifty below 
is all right as long as it’s all right. Which means 
that if everything goes smoothly and without ac¬ 
cident, no particular harm will result. But who 
can confidently expect to trail without accident? 
At fifty below the one absolute essential to life is 
• constant motion. No clothing, however warm, that 
a man can possibly pile onto himself and pretend to 
leave any freedon of movement for walking, will 
protect him from the grip of the frost unless he keep 
moving. Any circumstance that necessitates a halt 
without shelter spells disaster. A broken dog 
harness, a damaged sled, or worst of all, encounter¬ 
ing water on the ice, means a halt, and as nothing 
can be accomplished with the hand encased in heavy 
mittens, it also means baring the fingers to remedy 


93 


On the Koyukuk 

the evil, and baring the fingers at fifty below for 
more than a minute or two at a time means that the 
fingers will freeze to the bone. 

Water on the ice at fifty below? More chance of 
it than at any warmer temperature, for at fifty 
the creeks freeze solid to the bottom in the shallows, 
and the water thus dammed beneath the ice bursts 
through and comes rushing down in a torrent on 
top of the ice, but under the snow, so that before he 
knows it the unwary trail musher may find himself 
ankle deep in water, which at fifty below spells 
death unless he can immediately reach shelter and a 
fire. Nor can the danger be averted by forsaking 
the creeks, for in the land of the strong cold the 
level surface of the rivers and the creeks are the only 
practicable highways. And these things the men of 
the Koyukuk knew, and knowing them, waited for 
the let-up. 

And as they waited the talk was of gold. Old 
Man Gordon discoursed at length upon the possi¬ 
bilities of a '‘b’iler.” Someone spread the report of 
rich strikes further up the Koyukuk on Nolan Creek, 
and on Wiseman. Many signified their intention of 
hitting out for the new district in the spring. But 
Gordon was not one of these. He swore he would 
stay where he was, and would bring in a “b’iler” and 
show them all that the real bonanza of the Koyukuk 
was Myrtle. A stand in which he was upheld by 
Crim, the trader, and some few of the miners. 

The morning of the fourth of January, with the 


94 


North 


thermometer at 30 below, saw a general exodus from 
Cold foot. And as the sourdoughs mushed back to 
their claims, the Gordon sled was weighted with 
more than its freighting of grub, for when Lou 
had casually mentioned within hearing of some of 
the men in the trading store that she had read every 
scrap of paper in the cabin, there had been a general 
ferreting among the cabins of Coldfoot with the 
result that fifty pounds or more of well-thumbed 
books, and magazines were added to Gordon’s load. 

The coming of spring brought confirmation of 
the rumor of a strike on Nolan Creek. Coldfoot 
stampeded. The miners, all but a straggling few, 
hit the trail for the new diggings. The saloon fol¬ 
lowed the miners and the trading post followed the 
saloon. Coldfoot was dead. And Nolan became 
the metropolis of the Koyukuk. 

Among the few who remained were the Gordons. 
Disregarding the advice of friends, the stubborn 
Scot stayed on Myrtle, insisting that when he should 
bring his 'Viler” in and begin thawing the gravel 
with steam, they would all stampede back to Cold¬ 
foot. 

When he had finished sluicing his dump he 
weighed up dust enough to pay Crim, outfit himself 
for another year, and put aside a considerable sum 
toward the purchase and transportation of his 
beloved “b’iler.” 

Late in the fall Mrs. Gordon succumbed to an 
acute attack of appendicitis, and was buried by the 


95 


On the Koyukuk 

grief-stricken husband and daughter upon a wooded 
knoll just behind the cabin. After the death of his 
wife, Gordon drew more and more within himself, 
and more and more he became obsessed with his one 
idea—his “b’iler.” And so for three years he washed 
the bars in summer, and burned into the gravel in 
winter, the while his “b’iler” fund grew slowly. 

In the meantime, quite without the old man’s 
notice, Lou had developed from awkward girlhood 
into full rounded womanhood. And a very beautiful 
woman she was, the soft curves of her figure 
giving no hint of the splendid muscles that rippled 
and played beneath the velvet softness of her skin 
—muscles that rendered her absolutely tireless on 
the trail, and allowed her to swing an ax like a man. 
Perfect health steeled her nerves to an almost un¬ 
canny accuracy with the rifle. She did all the 
hunting, now, and no ptarmigan was brought into 
the Gordon cabin that had not been shot clean 
through the head with the twenty-two, or was any 
caribou hoisted to the meat cache that had not been 
instantly killed by a well-placed shot from the 
thirty-forty. 

Left to her own resources, the girl divided the 
time not occupied with her simple household duties 
between hunting, and reading, and the breeding of 
dogs. 

In the magazines which she devoured from cover 
to cover, she had occasionally run across an article 
upon the selective breeding of animals. One such 


96 


North 


article dealt with race horses, another with dairy 
cattle, and the information contained therein she 
eagerly digested, and proceeded to apply to the 
breeding of dogs. 

Gordon took scant interest in her “putterin’ wi’ 
the dogs” and gladly turned over their entire manage¬ 
ment to her, allowing her to keep the profits of the 
venture for her own. By the end of the third year 
these profits had mounted to a tidy sum, notwith¬ 
standing the fact that she used of it largely in the 
purchase of books and magazines whenever and 
wherever she found opportunity, and also in the 
purchase of materials for the underclothing which 
she fashioned by her own handiwork into garments 
that copied those in the fashion plates of the 
magazines to the utmost nicety. Her outer gar¬ 
ments, of fur in the winter and squaw cloth in 
summer, were the strictly utilitarian garments of the 
land of the strong cold. 

Quick to realize their superiority, the girl con¬ 
centrated on the two native breeds of dogs, the mala- 
mutes and the huskies. And the pride of her stud 
was a great upstanding brute of a dog called 
Skookum, whose mother a pure strain husky, she 
had mated with an old, but magnificently muscled 
husky she had bought cheap in Nolan, because his 
temper had soured with age until his owner feared to 
handle him. Later she shot him when in a fume of 
wolfish ferocity he ran amuck and killed two of 
his own pups. Upon Skookum, the sole survivor of 


97 


On the Koyukuk 

the litter, the girl lavished a world of affection, and 
a wealth of patient training. For, from the first she 
had seen in the tawny, amber eyed puppy the mak¬ 
ing of a great dog, inheriting as he had the superb 
physical build of his father, and it is true, his 
father’s wolfish temper, but blended with it the 
staunch loyalty and sagacity of his mother who was 
a famous trail dog on the Koyukuk. 

The fame of Lou Gordon as a breeder of dogs had 
traveled the length of the river. She drove a ten dog 
I team now, five malamutes and five huskies, and each 
dog in the team had been carefully selected from the 
pick of her kennels. Of this team Skookum was the 
leader, and few indeed were the trail tricks his 
mistress had not taught him. On the narrow trails 
of the Koyukuk the tandem rig was used almost ex- 
ausively, and following the leader came the other 
four huskies, and behind them the five malamutes. 
Thus, the longer .geared huskies broke trail for the 
shorter legged malamutes which in turn compensated 
by bearing the brunt of the pull. As, among all her 
dogs, Skookum was the girl’s favorite, so was he 
her constant companion, he alone being allowed to 
run at large. 

Although not an inherent fighter like the mala- 
mute, the husky breed develops now and then a 
wonderful fighter. Skookum was such a dog, his 
longer legs and heavier body giving him a decided 
advantage over any malamute, and added to this 
physical advantage was the sagacious cunning of 


7 


98 


North 


his generalship. Before he was two years old he had 
fought his way to the leadership of the team, dis¬ 
placing old Kamik, a crafty and incorrigible fighter, 
and an equally incorrigible thief. 

Lou Gordon knew dogs. She had picked 
Skookum for a leader from tiniest puppyhood, and 
to that end she bent all her energy upon his training. 
She talked to him as she would have talked to a 
human companion, and it was her fancy that he 
understood every word she spoke. While in no 
sense a demonstrative dog, Skookum had nothing of 
the supreme indifference of the malamute. His 
smouldering yellow eyes followed her every move¬ 
ment, and by little signs and quirks of expression, 
he gave evidence of understanding. A raised eye¬ 
brow, a single wag of the tail, a pricking of the 
mobile ears, and on rare occasions, a lick of the long 
red tongue upon her face or hand, told the girl as 
plainly as words what was passing in the great 
brute’s mind. 

There was nothing of the brutal in Lou Gordon’s 
training of her dogs. When occasion demanded she 
used the whip, and used it unsparingly, but always 
in the correction of an acquired fault, that if per¬ 
sisted in would detract from the value of the dog, 
or of the team as a unit. She never punished a dog 
for fighting, nor did she ever punish a hungry dog 
for stealing. Many hungry dogs came her way— 
dogs that she was able to buy cheap because through 
abuse and inadequate feeding they had become 


99 


On the Koyukuk 

of little value to their owners. These dogs she took 
home, and by judicious handling and feeding 
developed them into able-bodied trail dogs that com¬ 
manded top prices. 

The care and management of from fifteen to 
thirty dogs was no small task. She owned and 
operated with the help of an Indian boy her own 
fish nets, and dried her own fish. She hunted cari¬ 
bou, and tried out her own tallow. For she early 
learned that on the trail her dogs could not be kept 
in condition on a straight fish or meat diet. She 
bought corn meal and rice by the hundred-weight, 
and when working, her dogs always got one feed a 
day of cooked ration, boiled rice or cornmeal, 
mixed with tallow. 

The result was that her own team was by all odds 
the best team on the Koyukuk, and the dogs she 
offered for sale on her semi-annual trip to Nolan 
and Wiseman, were eagerly snapped up at top prices. 

And so it was, at the approach of Christmas, on 
the fourth year of their residence on the Koyukuk, 
father and daughter were living alone on Myrtle, 
for the last of the others had long since gravitated 
to the new camps, the old man burning, digging, 
and dreaming of his “b’iler,” and the girl busy with 
her dogs and her books. 


CHAPTER X 
ENRIGHT PAYS A VISIT 

Skookum raised his head, pricked his ears, and 
pointing his muzzle up the creek, gave voice to a low 
throaty growl. Lou Gordon glanced down at the 
dog, and continued to throw dried fish over the fence 
of the pole-and-stake dog corral. When she had 
tossed the last fish, she smiled: “Who is it, 
Skookum? We don’t have many visitors nowa¬ 
days, do we?” 

The dog stood silent, immovable save for a 
scarcely perceptible quiver of the nostrils, staring 
into the twilight. 

The girl laughed: “Only one man, eh? And no 
dogs. And he’s someone you know, and approve of. 
Oh, you see I can understand you as well as you can 
understand me! See, here he comes! Why, it’s 
Pete Enright!” 

The girl stepped forward, a smile of welcome 
upon her face: ''Klahowya six!'^ she greeted. 

^‘Kahta mikaf He smilingly returned her greet¬ 
ing in the jargon, and switched into English. “Well, 
well, Miss Lou, an’ how’s yer Pa? Still figgerin’ on 
his b’iler, I s’pose. Lord, what a passel of dogs! 
How many you goin’ to have to sell this trip?” 


100 


Enright Pays a Visit loi 

^‘ni have six dogs, and dad’s well. He’ll be 
home in a few minutes. It’s nearly time for supper. 
Swing off your pack. Yes, dad’s still figuring on 
his boiler.” Her face clouded for a moment. “And 
I’m afraid he’s got almost dust enough saved up 
to get it.” 

Enright laughed: “Afraid? Why, you talk like 
you ain’t got no faith in the b’iler to put Myrtle on 
the map agin.” 

She made a gesture of impatience. “And neither 
have you, nor anyone else but dad. He’s thought 
and thought about that old boiler until he can’t think 
or talk about anything else.” She was silent for a 
moment, and a smile parted her lips as she con¬ 
tinued : “I don’t mean what I said. That is, of 
course I want him to have the boiler because I know 
he will never be happy until he gets it. But—it 
seems like an awful lot of money just thrown 
away.” 

Enright nodded: “Yup, Miss Lou, that’s jist 
what it is—throw’d away. An’ no chanct of gittin’ 
it back. It’s too bad, but he’s that set on havin’ it 
they ain’t no mortal use tryin’ to auger him out of 
it, I s’pose.” 

The girl shook her head: “Not the slightest. 
Anyway it’s his money.” She smiled and drew a 
step closer. “Do you know that I am making almost 
as much as he is. He don’t know it. He never 
thinks of me as grown up, and really doing anything 
that’s of any use. ‘Putterin’ wi’ the dogs,’ he calls 


102 


North 


it, and he never pays any attention to them. I’ve got 
quite a lot of money saved up, and maybe it’s mean, 
when he’s so set on getting his boiler, but I have 
never let him know I have it. You see, if he does 
put everything he’s got into the boiler, an’ then finds 
it won’t make him rich right away, it’s going to 
almost kill him. He’s not as young as he was, and 
I don’t think he’d have the heart to start all over 
again. So, when it comes to that. I’ll have the dog 
money for us to live on.” 

Pete Enright’s mittened hand patted the girl’s 
shoulder and his big voice rumbled with approbation: 
“Don’t you never figger fer a minute that it’s mean. * 
It’s good common sense, that’s what it is. You’ve 
got the head fer the two of you. You’re the only one 
on the Koyukuk that seen they was any money in 
raisin’ an’ breakin’ good dogs, an’ the result is you 
get twict as much fer your dogs as anyone else does, 
an’ they’re worth it. Most everyone thinks a dog is 
just a chunk of the devil wropped up in fur an’ put 
into the world to be kicked an’ pounded, and swore at, 
an’ starved, an’ worked till he can’t stand up no 
longer, an’ then to be cut out of the traces an’ left 
to die, an’ his place filled in with another chunk of 
the devil. You seen how dogs was mighty near 
human, an’ you treat ’em human, an’ results is, 
your dogs is dogs! An’ that’s what I come down to 
see about, in a way—is dogs.” 

‘‘Do you want to buy a team?” 

“No, but you won’t have no trouble sellin* the six 


103 


Enright Pays a Visit 

yer goin’ to fetch up to Nolan. They’re sold already. 
An’ a couple of more, too, if you had ’em. Joe 
McCorkill, he’s in need of four to fill out his team, 
an’ the mail carrier needs two, an’ so does Johnny 
Atline. They’s plenty dogs fer sale around the 
camp, but they won’t none of ’em have no dogs but 
yourn. An’, say, let me give you a tip, hold out fer 
a hundred apiece fer ’em. You’ll git it. They all 
kin afford to pay it, an’ they’d ruther pay it fer 
the kind of dogs they’ll be gittin’, than to pay 
twenty or twenty-five fer mongrels or Siwash dogs.” 

“And, did you mush all the way down here to tell 
me that?” smiled the girl. 

“No, that ain’t the p’int—not altogether. The 
facts is, Nolan’s figgerin’ to pull off a reg’lar celebra¬ 
tion this Chris’mus. A sort of winter carnival, they 
call it, an’ they’ll be contests of every kind we kin 
think up, an’ prizes fer the winner of each one. 
Everyone has kicked in an’ doneated what he could 
afford to, an’ we’ve got quite a sight of dust fer 
prize money. They’ll be wrastlin’, an’ boxin’, which 
owin’ to the facts that there ain’t no boxin’ gloves 
on the Koyukuk, is looked fer to produce a bloody 
pastime. Then, they’ll be snowshoe an’ ski races, a 
football game between the Kobuk Eskimos an’ 
the Injuns, whirlin’ down contests, an’ a dog race— 
mebbe.” 

“A dog race!” cried the girl, her eyes lighting 
with sudden interest. “Oh, I wonder if I could 
enter my team ?” 


104 


North 


Enright smiled: ^That’s what I come to see 
about—that, an’ the trimmin’s.” 

“The trimmings?’’ asked the girl, with a puzzled 
frown. 

“Yeh, you see. Miss Lou, they’s a little bit more 
to this here race than jist runnin’ the dogs. Sort of 
a little—^what you might call politics.’’ 

The girl’s face darkened: “You mean—^you don’t 
mean that there’s going to be anything crooked 
about it? That a certain team will be allowed to 
win ?” 

“No, no! Nothin’ like that! Why, Miss Lou, 
you ort to know we wouldn’t stand for nothin’ like 
that on the Koyukuk.’’ 

“Of course I do! But, what in the world do you 
mean?’’ 

“Hello! Here comes yer pa. We kin talk it over 
after supper an’ then I’ll mush on to my old cabin 
up the crick.” ^ 

“Indeed you’ll do nothing of the kind!” laughed 
the girl. “We’ve got plenty of room right here. 
You bunk with dad. I’ve got a room of my own all 
curtained off.” 

Gordon gained the top of the low bank, and came 
toward them in the gloom. “Dad,” called the girl. 
“Here’s Pete Enright come to make us a visit!” 

The old man quickened his step and extended his 
hand: “Aye, Pete, lad, ye’re welcome back on 
Myrtle. How’s thing’s up river? An’ have ye 
seen Burr MacShane?” 


105 


Enright Pays a Visit 

“No, Burr MacShane ain’t be’n saw nor heard tell 
of on the Koyukuk, fer it’s goin’ on four year or 
better. Nolan’s all right. They’s talk of a strike on 
Hammond River, further up the Koyukuk.” 

“They’re fools an’ daft, wi’ their runnin’ hither an’ 
yon after new strikes. Continually runnin’ after 
strange gods, as the Gude Book says. But, wait till 
I get my b’iler, an’ start steam thawin’! Next sum¬ 
mer—next summer if the dump sluices out big, 
Pete Enright, ye’ll see Nolan, an’ Wiseman, an’ 
this new Hammond River, stampedin’ back to 
Myrtle, an’ every one of ’em that can afford it, wi’ 
a b’iler on his claim.” 

“Well, mebbe—mebbe, Gordon. I ain’t sayin’ 
they won’t, an’ I ain’t sayin’ they will. Personal, I 
ain’t got no faith in no b’iler fer gold diggin’.” 

“It’s because ye don’t know no better! Why, man, 
look here! Don’t it stand to reason—” and Gordon 
launched into his favorite theme with enthusiasm 
that a thousand repetitions had not dampened, and 
while Enright listened in tolerant silence, Lou 
slipped into the cabin and began the preparation of 
supper. 

The meal over, Gordon showed signs of renewing 
his discussion of “b’ilers,” but was forestalled by 
Enright: “About this here dog race. Miss Lou, that 
I was speakin’ of-” 

“Dog race? Dog race?” queried the old man, 
“What foolishness is this about a dog race?” 

“It won’t be foolishness none whatever fer the 



io6 


North 


winner/* replied Enright. “We figgered on puttin* 
up a prize of about twenty-five ounces. That’s four 
hundred dollars, an’ not so bad fer a day’s work, 
neither. That is, that’s what we figger to put up if 
Miss Lou will enter her team. If she won’t they 
won’t be no dog race whatever.” 

“Why, how ridiculous!” cried the girl. “What 
possible difference can it make whether or not I 
enter? Surely, with a prize of twenty-five ounces, 
you can get plenty of teams in the race.” 

“Yeh, quite a considerable of ’em—if it wasn’t 
fer Jake Dalzene. But, that ain’t the p’int. I’ll 
‘kind of give you a line on how things is, an’ the 
way the boys thinks up the river, an’ you kin jedge 
fer yerself. 

“They’s a low down skunk of a hooch-runnin’ 
squaw man, name of Jake Dalzene that lives down 
to Rampart on the Yukon. You know they ain’t 
no Rampart no more, she’s plumb abandoned all but 
the native village, an’ this here party lives there with 
the Injuns, you know the kind. That is, he lives 
there when he ain’t off somewheres else peddlin’ 
hooch to the Injuns off the river. He’s plum kulHis 
—has him a new squaw ’bout every full moon, an’ 
kicks ’em an’ beats ’em like he handles his dogs. 
Well, this here party is up to Nolan, him an’ his 
pardner. Worked along up the river with a couple 
sled loads of hooch, an’ got red of it tradin’ with the 
Injuns fer fur. When he heard the talk about pull¬ 
in’ a big hurrah around Chris’mus, he begun to talk 


107 


Enright Pays a Visit 

dog race, an’ dog fight. He’s claimed to be one of 
the hardest men on dogs in Alaska, but he’s always 
got a good team. Either he figgers he kin haul more 
hooch with good dogs, or else he needs ’em to git 
away from the marshals, I don’t know which, but 
anyway, he’s got good dogs. 

“First off, his dog race talk wasn’t looked on none 
favorable. The boys figgerin’ that their teams 
wouldn’t stand no show again his’n. Then he pulls 
out a roll of cash money, in big bills, an’ starts in 
wantin’ to bet. He’s got the money all right, rolls 
of bills big enough to choke a moose in every pocket 
an’ plenty of dust besides. You see, bein’ in the 
business he’s in he don’t dare to trust no one with his 
money, never knowin’ when he’ll have to light out, 
nor how far he will have to go, so he packs it with 
him. Well, as I said, he flashes his roll an’ brags 
on his team an’ offers to bet the hull or any part of 
it on his dogs on any race from a mile to a hundred 
mile. ’Course he don’t git no takers, an’ so he heaves 
in some more hooch, an’ every time he takes a drink 
his dogs looks better to him, an’ every one else’s looks 
poorer. So he gits to offerin’ odds—two to one at 
first, an then three to one, an’ when I left camp it 
had got up to five to one that he could beat anything 
on the Koyukuk. 

“Well we’d got kind of tired of bearin’ him 
shootin’ off his mouth an’ so some of us got to kind 
of figgerin’ if we couldn’t bunch our dogs an’ pick us 
out a winnin’ team from the lot, seein’ how the odds 


io8 


North 


was gittin’ pretty promisin’. But when we come to 
try ’em out we seen it wasn’t no go. The dogs 
wouldn’t work good together, the best ones bein’ 
mostly leaders that wouldn’t work nowheres but in 
the lead. 

*‘Then I thinks of you all. When I mentions your 
team they was a whoop from the boys, an’ every 
one of ’em agrees that if you’ll enter your team we 
could make a cleanin’ an’ at the same time learn that 
skunk a lesson not to come hornin’ in on the 
Koyukuk where folks like him ain’t wanted.” 

Old Man Gordon snorted contemptuously and 
knocked the ashes from his pipe against the stove: 
“If ye’re expectin’ me to risk gude gold on the out¬ 
come of a dog race, Pete Enright, ye’ve had ye’re 
trip fer nothin’. ’Twas better than eight year agone 
that Burr MacShane taught me the folly of riskin’ 
gude money on a thing that ain’t sure certain, an’ 
I’m savin’ my dust fer my b’iler.” 

“Sure, I know, Gordon. An’ we ain’t askin’ you 
to put up a cent. It’s like this, some of the boys 
says how Old B’iler Gordon wouldn’t allow no dogs 
of his’n to be run agin money, not even fer a prize, 
bein’ he’s plum religious, that way. But, I know’d 
better. I says to ’em, I says, ‘You all don’t know 
B’iler Gordon like I know him. Religious he is,’ 
I says, ‘an’ it’s a credit to him. If we all had more 
religion onto us than what we’ve got it wouldn’t 
hurt us none whatever. But, along with his religion 
B’iler has got a lot of common sense. If we put 


109 


Enright Pays a Visit 

up a prize enough to make it worth while I bet 
he’ll not have no ’bjection to runnin’ his dogs, on 
account it ain’t gamblin’ when he don’t put up 
nothin’ agin the prize. It’s jist simply earnin’ the 
money by honest work.’ Ain’t I right, Gordon?” 

The old man nodded affirmation: “Ye’re right. 
A prize in any contest is fair earnt as long as the 
outcome ain’t decided by luck alone. ’Tis what 
I told Burr MacShane.” 

“That’s the idee,” agreed Enright, emphatically, 
“I know’d you well enough to be sure you’d take 
the sensible way of seein’ it. So I says to the boys, 
T’ll jist slip down to Gordon’s an’ find out fer sure 
if they’ll be up fer Chris’mus, and if he’ll let his 
dogs enter the race.’ You see, this here Dalzene 
party, he don’t know nothin’ about Miss Lou’s 
team, an’ he thinks he’s saw the general run of 
Koyukuk dogs, an’ he knows it’s too late fer us 
to run in any reg’lar racin’ team from over Nome 
way, an’ that’s why he’s bettin’ so high.” 

Enright paused, filled his pipe, and blowing a 
cloud of blue smoke ceilingward, continued: “Now, 
here’s where the politics comes in. We all know 
that big ten team of Miss Lou’s ain’t never be’n 
raced, but we’ve got the hunch that they kin clean 
up anything this side of Nome. Us not bein’ re¬ 
ligious, an’ not havin’ no scruples about bettin’ a 
little now an’ then’ jist by way of amusement, you 
might say, we’ll jist cover Dalzene’s pile, an’ if we 
kin clean him out—bust him, it’ll be a plumb 


no 


North 


religious move, ^cause he won’t be able to get holt 
of so much hooch to peddle to the pore Injuns. 
Ain’t that right, Gordon?” 

‘‘Aye, ye’re right,” affirmed the old man, judi¬ 
cially, “Don’t it tell in the Gude Book how the Lord 
overturned the tables of the money changers, an’ 
scourged them wi’ scourges? He done it because 
they was ungodly men, an’ a generation of vipers, 
so any act that will be as a scourge to the ungodly 
will be counted as righteousness. Ye’ve more 
religion between ye than I thought, Pete Enright.” 

“Sure we have, B’iler—a damn sight more than 
we thought, ourselves. But, it’s like the itch, if 
you’ve got it, it’ll show up, sometime. But, as I 
was sayin’, the way to work it is like this: I’ll 
take the six dogs that Miss Lou’s goin’ to fetch 
up to sell, an’ pull out fer Nolan in the mornin’.” 

“Oh, not those dogs!” cried the girl, “They’re 
good dogs, but they haven’t worked together long 
enough. They couldn’t win a race against a team 
that knew how to work together.” 

“Jist so,” agreed Enright, “That’s what I fig- 
gered. However, it ain’t no harm in me takin’ ’em 
along up fer you, is they, to save you the trouble? 
I’ll see they’re well took care of. Without sayin’ 
nothin’ I’ll hit town with these here six dogs an’ 
begin runnin’ ’em up an’ down on the ice. The 
boys’ll crowd down there to watch ’em run an’ 
then they’ll begin to take bets offen Dalzene. Of 
course it might be such a thing that Dalzene will 


t 


Ill 


Enright Pays a Visit 

come down along with the rest an’ he might some¬ 
how git the idee that this here was the team we 
was hangin’ our dust onto. An’ he might figger, 
him knowin’ dogs a little, that his’n could beat ’em 
without half tryin’. It’s ten days yet, till Chris’mus, 
an’ every day I’ll work them dogs out on the ice, an’ 
every day we kin kind of cover more an’ more of 
Dalzene’s money, till we’ve got it all covered. Then 
the day before Chris’mus you come along an’ bearin’ 
how they’s a race you enter your team. Mean¬ 
while all these here bets has be’n made, the money 
is up, an’ Dalzene has bet agin’ the whole field 
fer his team to win. That’s what he’s offerin’, 
his team agin the field, an’ accordin’ to his way of 
seein’ it, it’s as good a bet as any, ’cause he says 
he don’t care if they’s a dozen teams or one, he’s 
only got to beat the best of ’em anyhow, an’ he 
ain’t worryin’ none but what he kin do it. 

‘‘Now, the boys thinks that if we all make a 
clean-up on this here ungodless party from Ram¬ 
part, on account of your team winnin’ this here race, 
it wouldn’t be no more than fair to add ten percent 
of our winnin’s to the prize. What do you say 
to that?” 

Gordon’s eyes rested upon the face of his daughter. 
“What do ye say, lass? The dogs are yours, 
you’ve raised ’em an’ fooled wi’ ’em an’ broke ’em, 
an’ if we win the money’s yours.” 

“Oh, I’d love to do it!” cried the girl, her eyes 
shining. “And I believe we can win, too. But what 


112 North 

if he backs down when he sees my team? What 
if he won’t race?” 

‘‘We aim to fix that. We all will lay our bets 
with the understandin’ that if he backs out he loses. 
He’s got to race an’ win to take the money.” 

“How many miles shall we race?” she asked 
eagerly. 

Enright considered: “Dalzene he’s made his crack 
that he’ll run anywheres from one mile to a hundred. 
The boys kind of left it to you fer to name the dis¬ 
tance. As I said, them dogs of Dalzene’s looks good 
an’ fit. But they’s only seven of ’em, agin’ your ten. 
An’ besides, his sled is a heavy, rough ice proposi¬ 
tion, built more fer freightin’ than speed.” 

“But, so is mine,” interrupted the girl. 

“Sure, I know. But the mail carrier’s ain’t. An’ 
bein’ as he’ll have all the dust he kin scrape together 
invested in this here scheme for Christianizin’ Jake 
Dalzene, it ain’t goin’ to be none hard whatever, 
fer to borrow that sled off him. So, takin’ it all 
in all, as the feller says, I guess we better make it 
a middlin’ long drag. Say, anyways forty or fifty 
mile. The longer it is, the heavier the pull is goin’ 
to be on Dalzene’s dogs.” 

“Why not go the whole hundred?” cried the girl. 

Enright laughed: “I wondered if you’d say that. 
It’ll sure tickle the boys when I tell ’em. It shows 
yer heart’s right, an’ yer game, an’ you got belief 
in yer dogs—not that we didn’t know you was 
game all right. Miss Lou,” he hastened to add^ 


”3 


Enright Pays a Visit 

1 

^‘’Cause there ain’t a man on the Koyukuk that 
wouldn’t go plumb to hell for you.” He paused, 
floundering awkwardly, ‘‘I mean, in a way of 
speakin’, as the feller says,” and encountering the 
twinkle of amusement in the eyes of the girl, pro¬ 
ceeded : ‘‘But, they’s two or three reasons why a 
fifty mile race would be better. First an’ foremost 
of which is that they’s a hard packed trail from 
Nolan to Johnny Atline’s cabin, twenty-five mile up 
the river. Beyond Johnny’s the trail peters out an’ 
they’d be a lot of trail breakin’ ahead of the dogs. 
If you run to Johnny’s an’ back it’s fifty mile, an’ 
a ridin’ trail all the way. That’ll be to your advan¬ 
tage, ’cause Dalzene he weighs goin’ on two hundred 
an’ a quarter, an’ it’ll be so much more drag on his 
dogs. Then, agin, we don’t want it so long that 
folks’ll lose interest. You see, it ain’t like the 
Alaska Sweepstakes over to Nome. They run better 
than four hundred mile, but it’s the biggest race 
in the world, an’ folks jist na’chly can’t lose interest. 
You’d ort to make it to Johnny’s an’ back in ten 
or twelve hours-” 

“Ten or twelve hours!” exclaimed the girl, “With 
a good riding trail, and a light sled if I can’t make 
it in less than nine hours I ought to lose!” 

Enright whistled: “D’ye really think you kin 
beat ten hours? You got to remember yer team 
ain’t broke to race.” 

Lou Gordon smiled: “Not now, they aren’t— 
but you must remember it’s ten days till Christmas.” 


8 



CHAPTER XI 
DISAPPOINTMENT 

Early in the morning of the day before 
Christmas, Lou Gordon divided the bacon and flap- 
jacks between two plates, and crossed to where her 
father lay snoring loudly beneath his blankets. The 
two had camped for the night in an abandoned 
cabin only five miles below Nolan. 

^‘Wake up, dad!’' she called, “Breakfast’s all 
ready, and it’s time to mush.” 

The old man stirred sleepily and opened his eyes. 
“What’s the hurry, lass? We’ve got all day before 
us, an’ only five miles to go. What’s the sense in 
hittin’ the trail this time of night?” 

The girl smiled: “I want to be in and out of 
Nolan before it gets light.” 

“In and out! What d’ye mean, in an’ out?” 

“Why, tomorrow’s the day of the dog race, and 
I want to take the dogs over the course today. I 
want to know the trail, and I want them to know 
it.” 

Old Man Gordon threw back his blankets and 
drew on his moccasins, “What are ye so particular 
about the trail for? Didn’t Pete Enright say it was 
plain an’ hard packed—a ridin’ trail all the way?” 


Disappointment 115 

^‘Yes, but it isn’t going to do any harm to know 
it. I have never driven a race before, and I want 
to know everything there is to know about the trail. 
I’m going to win! And besides, I want to give 
the dogs a final workout.” 

The cabin was bare of furniture, and without 
rising from the floor Gordon drew one of the 
plates toward him. Lou took the other, and seated 
herself at his side. 

“What’s this talk about drivin’ the race, an’ 
knowin’ the trail?” asked the old man, as he partook 
largely of a flapjack. 

The girl glanced up in surprise. “Why, I said I 
want to know all about the trail so I can win the 
race tomorrow.” 

“Ye win it! Losh, lass, ye don’t suppose I’d 
be lettin’ ye drive the race—wi’ twenty-five ounces 
at stake?” 

“What do you mean?” cried Lou, in sudden alarm. 

“I mean. I’ll drive the race myself, of course! 
A slip of a lass like ye drivin’ a fifty mile race! 
An’ expectin’ me to let ye do it! ’Tis never to be 
thought of. How could ye hold the dogs to the 
work? No, no, lass, the money’ll be ye’re own if 
ye’re dogs win it. But it’s a job fer a man, an’ 
not a wee lass.” 

For a moment the girl remained speechless— 
stunned. She wondered if she had heard aright. 
Surely her father could not mean that he would try 
to handle the dogs—her dogs, that she had raised 


ii6 


North 


from puppyhood, and trained, and worked over. 
Why, she knew those dogs! They were hers. 
Nobody but herself had ever driven them. Nobody 
could drive them as she could drive them. They 
understood her as she understood them. And, 
what did her father know of dogs? 

When at length she spoke her voice sounded 
strange and far off: “Do you mean that you are 
going to try to drive the dogs—my dogs?” 

“Of course Tm goin’ to drive ’em. Not that I 
think ye ain’t a good hand wi’ dogs, mind ye. 
’Cause ye are. Ye handle ’em as gude as a man 
on the trail. But, not against a stake of four 
hundred dollars. Ye must remember that for all 
the pluck of ye, ye’re but a lass. Ye lack ex¬ 
perience-” 

“Experience!” cried the girl, her face flushed 
with the mighty anger that surged up within her, 
“Experience! When did you ever have any ex¬ 
perience racing dogs?” 

“I never raced any dogs in my life, but all my 
life I’ve handled dogs-” 

“And you don’t know any more about dogs than 
I know about your old boiler! Why, dad, can’t 
you see? Those are my dogs! I know every one 
of them, and they know me. I can get a hundred 
times more out of them than you can. Why, I 
raised them! And besides, you think I’m just a 
baby! You’ve been so full of that old boiler that 
you haven’t noticed that I’ve grown up! But. 




Disappointment ^ 17 

I’m not a baby! I’m nineteen! And I can out¬ 
drive you, and out-mush you, any day!” 

“Tush! Tush, lass! Ye’re fergettin’ yourself. 
Ye’re lettin’ ye’re angry passions rise against ye’re 
own father. Honor thy father an’ thy mother, 
the Gude Book says, an’ ’tis scant honor to face 
down yer own father wi’ foolish prattle! I never 
thought ye’d be expectin’ to drive the race yerself, 
or I’d told ye long ago. I can see how ye’re maybe 
upset wi’ disappointment, an’ I’m not holdin’ ye’re 
hasty words against ye.” 

The girl’s anger subsided as swiftly as it had 
arisen, and there were tears in her eyes as she 
answered in a voice that was not quite steady: ^ 
“Forgive me, dad! Really I hardly knew what I 
was saying. We can’t be angry with each other. 
Why, you’re the only person I have in the world. 
And I do love you.” 

“Of course ye do, lass. Say no more about it. 
I’ve forgot it already.” 

“Oh, but, dad—can’t you see that the dogs will 
work better for me than for anyone? I’m the one 
who has handled them, I feed them and care for 
them. To me they are just like so many people. 

I know each one—his faults, and his virtues. 
Please, dad, please let me drive the race. I’m not 
just a little girl. Look at me, I’m as tall as you 
are!” 

“Aye, but for all that, ye’re but a wee lass, an’ 
’tis foolishness to be pratin’ of drivin’ a dog race 


Ii8 


North 


—to be tryin’ to compete wi’ grown men on their 
own terms. This Dalzene, I’ve heard of him 
down on the Yukon—an’ no gude of him, an’ I’m 
knowin’ ’twill take a man to beat him.” 

“But the men of Nolan! Think of the men who 
have backed my dogs with their gold! They, too, 
thought I was going to drive. Pete Enright 
thought of course I’d drive. Surely you wouldn’t 
do anything that would cause them to lose. All of 
them are your friends, and how would you feel if 
this horrible Dalzene went back to the Yukon with 
their dust?” 

“Aye, an’ it’s to prevent just that I’m goin’ to 
drive this race. It ain’t in reason that their gude 
gold should be at the mercy of a striplin’ of a lass.” 

“Let’s leave it to ^hem!” cried the girl, “Surely, 
you will agree that they have much more at stake 
than we have. Let them decide who will drive the 
race. It’s their dust that’s at stake, and they should 
be allowed to name the driver.” 

The old man shook his head stubbornly: “No, 
no, lass. ’Twould not be fair to put it up to them. 
There ain’t a man among them but would vote for 
ye to drive when they seen how you’d set yer heart 
on it. They’re real men—the men of the Koyukuk. 
An’ if they thought ’twould please ye, they’d vote 
the gold out of their own pockets wi’out battin’ 
an eye. Don’t fear, lass. I’m not forgettin’ the 
boys.” 

Lou Gordon knew her father. She realized the 


Disappointment 119 

absolute futility of further argument. Without 
another word she drew on her parka and, leaving 
the old man to pack up the camp outfit, stepped out 
into the keen air. At the shrill creak of the sagging 
door which she closed behind her, heads appeared 
above the dark furry mounds that dotted the sur¬ 
face of the snow, and below the pricked ears, ten 
pairs of eyes glowed in the reflected starlight like 
live coals. Here and there a dog got up, stretched 
with a prodigious yawn and settled back upon his 
haunches to eye the girl in eager expectancy. Of 
all the dogs only Skookum presumed to approach 
her. Stepping close he raised his pciinted muzzle 
and the smouldering yellow eyes searched the face 
of his mistress. Dropping to one knee, Lou threw 
her arms about the great neck, and a dry convulsive 
sob shook her as she buried her face in the thick 
hair. Only for a moment she remained thus, and 
as she released the dog, his long red tongue .shot 
out and caressed her cheek. And as he stalked 
slowly to his place at the head of the row of waiting 
dogs, Lou noted that the great white plume of his 
tail that generally flaunted high above his neck was 
carried at half mast. “He knows,” she whispered 
to the brilliantly glittering stars, “Skookum knows 
that there is something wrong, and by tomorrow, 
they’ll all know it. Oh, why can’t he listen to 
reason!” 

From a canvas bag she drew a ball composed of 
tallow and boiled rice which Skookum deftly caught 


120 


North 


in mid air. One after another the dogs caught and 
wolfed down their portions, and righting the sled, 
the girl proceeded to harness them, each dog, as his 
name was called, eagerly taking his accustomed place 
in the team, as she deftly adjusted the harness. 

When a few minutes later Old Man Gordon 
opened the door, the great ten team stood ready 
for the trail. The camp outfit lashed to the sled, 
the girl held out her whip to her father: “You 
better drive them on in,” she said, “It will give you 
a chance to get acquainted with them a little, and 
it won’t be quite so much of a surprise to them, 
tomorrow.” 

“Losh, lass, a dog team is a dog team. I’ve drove 
hundreds of ’em in my time.” Nevertheless he took 
the whip, and gave the command to mush. The 
dogs remained stationary, and cracking the whip 
loudly, the old man repeated the command: “Hi, 
mush! Mush-u!” 

At the sound of the whip, Skookum looked 
around in surprise, hesitated uncertainly for a 
moment, and seeing that the girl stood at the old 
man’s side, decided it was all right, and started. 
The other dogs, not hearing the sound of the 
familiar voice, did not move with the leader, and 
the result was a jerky, awkward start. A hundred 
yards down the trail, Skookum deliberately stopped 
stalk still and looked backwards. Again it was all 
right. The girl was mushing along beside the sled, 
and the leader started on as Gordon shouted his 


Disappointment 121 

command to mush. On and on they plodded, and 
as Lou’s eyes rested upon her dogs she noted the 
listless, mechanical manner of their going—noted 
also that the tails showed an unwonted droop. 

“Can’t you see the difference, dad?” she asked 
at length, “They don’t know what to make of it. 
They haven’t got their hearts in their work.” 
Before the old man could reply, a sharp bend in the 
trail brought them face to face with a dog team. 
“Gee! Gee! Gee!” cried Gordon excitedly, crack¬ 
ing his whip close to Skookum’s ears. But instead 
of turning out for the oncoming team, the great 
leader lunged forward and snapped viciously at the 
lead dog of the other team. In an instant the two 
teams were at each other tooth and nail. Gordon 
and the other driver, sprang into the melee, strik¬ 
ing right and left with the whips, and vainly trying 
to make themselves heard above the pandemonium 
of growls and snarls. An instant later a shrill 
whistle cut the air. The girl rushed to Skookum’s 
side, and grasping his collar repeated the whistle. 
Instantly the great dog drew away from his op¬ 
ponent and stood quivering, every hair a-bristle. 
The other driver managed to collar his own leader, 
and repeating the shrill whistle the girl snatched the 
whip from her father’s hand, and brought the lash 
down with stinging force upon the back of Kog, 
the fourth malamute from the sled. The blow had 
the desired effect. The four other huskies had 
stopped fighting when Skookum stopped, and the 


122 


North 


malamutes followed as Kog dropped upon his belly 
in the snow. Fortunately there had been little or 
no tangling of harness, as the dogs had been sepa¬ 
rated almost as soon as the fight began and a few 
moments later both outfits were once more strung 
out upon the trail. 

“Oh, dad, can’t you see, now?” cried the girl. 
“They’re not used to you. They don’t understand.” 

“They’re ill broke!” growled the old man, stub¬ 
bornly. 

“They’re not!” exclaimed the girl, “They are the 
best broken dogs on the Koyukuk! Ask anybody.” 

“There’s no one on the river, that would hurt 
ye’re feelin’s by sayin’ aught against ye’re dogs, 
lass. But, ’tis no way for a leader to do, to fly at 
the throat of a passin’ lead dog.” 

“If he had been handled right Skookum would 
never have done it. Why did you think you had to 
yell ‘Gee’ three times and crack your whip right at 
Skookum’s ears?” 

“ ’Tis a trail of ample wideness to pass wi’ plenty 
room.” 

“And they would have passed without even 
hesitating if you hadn’t confused Skookum by yell¬ 
ing at him as if he were deaf. Why, you can’t 
even start them without nearly jerking the outfit 
to pieces.” 

“It’s because of they’re trainin’. They ain’t half 
broke. I’m tellin’ ye. I know what dogs should 
do.” 


Disappointment 123 

\ 

/ 

‘‘And ril show you what these dogs can do, if 
they’re properly handled. Give me the whip!” The 
old man complied. 

“Whoah!” At the sound of the girl’s voice the 
team froze in its tracks. “Mush!” Instantly, the 
team started as a single dog. The sled slipped 
smoothly into motion and the dogs broke into a 
brisk trot, their plumes a-wave. “Steady!” The 
trot slowed to a walk. In the distance sounded the 
tiny tinkle of bells. 

“Here comes another team!” cried the old man, 
“Git to ye’re leader an hold him till they’ve passed! 
Next time, they’ll tangle an’ maybe we’ll have a 
hurt dog. They’d of tangled before if I hadn’t 
got there just as I did.” 

“Get on the sled!” commanded the girl. “I’m 
driving, now, and I’ll show you something!” 

Reluctantly the old man seated himself upon the 
sled. The tinkle of bells sounded nearer. Grasping 
the tail rope the girl spoke to her father: “You 
couldn’t pass that other team at a walk. Watch 
me!” 

“Mush! Mush!” the command cut clear, and the 
dogs sprang into a run. “Mush-u! Hi! Hi!” 
Faster and faster they flew over the hard-packed 
trail. Directly ahead, seemingly almost upon them 
in the gloom, a dog team topped a rise. “Mush!” 
The dogs increased their speed. “Gee!” The single 
spoken word cut clear, and swerving without a 
perceptible jerk, Skookum, threw his team to the 


124 


North 


side of the trail, and the next instant, they flashed 
past the oncoming team. 

'That’s drivin’!” called a voice from the dark¬ 
ness behind them, and Lou slowed her dogs to 
a walk with a word. 

"Now, what do you say?” asked the girl. 

" ’Twas a foolhardy thing to do,” announced 
Gordon. "I’d say ye were lucky. But it proves 
ye’re not fit to drive a race.” 

The remainder of the trip was made in silence. 

Enright himself greeted the outfit as it drew up 
to the roadhouse door, and while her father ex¬ 
changed greetings with a half-dozen former 
residents of Slate Creek and Myrtle, the girl 
managed to call Enright aside. 

"What’s ailin’ you. Miss Lou? You look like 
you expected to lose that dog race instead of winnin’ 
it.” 

"That’s just it. I’m afraid we will lose it. At 
least we won’t stand near as good a chance of 
winning as I thought we would.” 

"What’s the matter? Dogs gone sick on you?” 

"No, they’re in tiptop condition. It isn’t that, 
but just this morning dad informed me that he is 
going to drive the race! Said it was a man’s job. 
He just can’t realize that I have grown up. And 
he don’t know any more about handling those dogs 
than the man in the moon.” 

Enright whistled: "Plumb set on it, is he ? Did 
you try to reason with him?” 


Disappointment 125 

‘‘Reason with him! Fve tried every possible 
argument I could think of. Even showed him how 
I could handle them on the trail, after he’d mixed 
up with an outfit we met. But it’s no use. You 
know dad.” 

“Yup, he’s the settest man when he gits an idee 
in his head I ever seen or heard tell of. Well, if 
that’s how it is, it’s got to be that way, I s’pose. 
Mebbe the dogs is so good that anyone could win 
with ’em. That’s our only chance. Unless-” 

“Unless what?” 

“I was thinkin’, mebbe, we might sort of kidnap 
him till after the race.” 

“No, no I Don’t do that. He would never for¬ 
give you—or me either. No, we’ve got to let him 

go.” 

“All right, Miss Lou. You’re the doctor.” 

“At least. I’ll try to persuade him to take them 
over the course today, so they’ll know the trail.” 

A few moments later she approached her father: 
“Dad, don’t you think it would be wise to take the 
dogs over the course today, so they will be familiar 
with the trail. You ought to know it yourself.” 

“Losh, lass! I’ve be’n to Johnny Atline’s, an’ as 
for the dogs they can’t get off the trail, it’s a ridin’ 
trail all the way.” 

“I know, but the dogs will travel any trail they 
know better than they will a strange trail.” 

“No, no. Now don’t you go botherin’ your head 
about that race. You leave it all to me. Even wi’ 



126 


North 


the dogs broke bad as they are, I’ll win. Go on now 
an’ enjoy ye’reself. I’m goin’ over there wi’ the 
boys.” And turning away, he followed the men 
who had already started for the saloon. 

“He won’t even take them over the course,” she 
reported to Pete Enright, when her father had 
passed out of hearing. 

“Dalzene’s had his up an’ back three or four 
times.” 

The girl who had been regarding the toes of 
her moccasins, suddenly looked up. “Where is 
Dalzene?” *■ 

“Oh, he ain’t up yet. He got pretty well loaded 
up on hooch last night, an’ he’ll lay abed till noon.” 

“I’m going to take the dogs over the trail myself! 
Tell me, how will I know Johnny Atline’s cabin.” 

“Can’t miss it. Keep on up the river fer twenty- 
five mile. There’s an island right opposite Johnny’s 
claim with two big rocks standin’ on the lower end 
of it. The boys was up the other day an’ cleared a 
wide place in the snow for a turnin’ place. You can’t 
go wrong, they ain’t no trail beyond, to speak of.” 

“Come on down to the river and see me off,” 
smiled the girl, “and I want you to time me.” 

“Eight o’clock right on the dot!” cried Enright. 

The girl waved her hand, and started her dogs, 
“Look for me about four!” she cried over her 
shoulder, as the great brutes bounded away. 

Enright grinned: “ ’Bout six will hit her closter,” 
he opined, and turned toward the saloon. 


CHAPTER XII 


“TWENTY MINUTES TO FOUR” 

^‘What^s the matter with you all Koyukuk mala- 
mutes? Broke? Cold feet? Or, what? I’ve still 
got twenty-five hundred dollars here that’s tryin’ 
to talk! Five to one that my team’ll come in first 
tomorrow I Who’s got five hundred dollars that 
ain’t workin’? Or, don’t yer six mangy curs you 
be’n floggin’ up an’ down the river look* as good as 
they did yiste’day?” Jake Dalzene stood at the end 
of the bar in the Aurora Borealis, Nolan’s single 
saloon, a whisky glass in one hand and a roll 
of bills in the other, and blustered forth his 
challenge. 

No one accepted the bet. Old Man Gordon, 
knowing his limitations, and realizing that he must 
keep a clear head for the morrow, after three or 
four drinks, had retired to the road house where 
he was passing the afternoon close beside the big 
stove, alternately dozing and reading from a dilapi¬ 
dated copy of Lorna Doom that comprised the entire 
fictional section of the roadhouse library. 

The Aurora Borealis swarmed with the men from 
the creeks. The roulette wheel, and the faro layout 

127 


128 


North 


were crowded to capacity, games of stud were in 
progress at the poker tables, from above stairs 
came the incessant din of the dance hall piano, and 
the ceiling boards creaked to the thumping and 
scraping of moccasined feet. 

At the bar, a group of sourdoughs heard the 
loud-bawled challenge of Dalzene, but heeded it not. 
Among them was Pete Enright, who had whispered 
the ill tidings that Old Man Gordon, and not his 
daughter, was to drive the dog race. Thereupon 
deep gloom had settled upon the camp, for not a 
man among them but knew the futility of argument 
with Old Man Gordon when his mind was made up, 
nor did a man among them have any faith in 
Gordon’s ability to drive the ten team to victory. 

“We all was sure hell bent on makin’ it plain that 
there wasn’t to be no backin’ out,” dolefully reflected 
Angel Crabb. “I’ve got a thousan’ in good dust 
locked up in Clem’s safe there that yesterday sure 
looked like six thousan’. An’ now it looks like a 
busted flush that had be’n draw’d to an’ missed.” 

“My five hundred don’t look that good,” opined 
Rim Rock Keets. “Busted flushes that wasn’t 
helped on the draw has be’n made to drag down the 
pot—but they ain’t no way to bluff through on a 
dog race.” 

“It ain’t so much the dust that’s botherin’ me,” 
confided Enright, “I got .quite a heft of it put up, 
too. But, it’s the idee of this here low down scum 
cornin’ up here an’ makin’ a killin’ off’n us 


“Twenty Minutes to Four” 129 


t 

Koyukukers. That—an^ knowin’ how bad Miss Lou 
feels about it. They ain’t none of us that feels as 
plum disapp’inted as what she does. Damn * Old 
Man Gordon!” 

“We might git him stewed so bad he wouldn’t be 
fitten to drive no dogs tomorrow,” suggested a man 
from Sheep Creek. 

Enright shook his head: “No we mightn’t, 
neither. First off, it would be playin’ it low down 
on the girl. An’ anyone that tries that game, him 
an’ I is goin’ to put in some spare time blackin’ 
one another’s eyes, an’ otherwise roughin’ things 
up. I’ve know’d that girl, a little better'n four 
year, an’ so has quite a lot of us—ever since she 
come into the country. She don’t like fer the Old 
Man to drink much—an’ that settles that. Onct an’ 
a while he gits stewed, but that’s his business, an’ 
not ourn. But even if anyone was to try I don’t 
think he could git another drink down Gordon this 
day. He’s the settest man there is, an’ he don’t aim 
to git drunk—leastwise till after the race.” 

“He might win it, at that,” said the mail carrier, 
hopefully. 

“ ’Tain’t hardly likely,” replied Enright. “Gordon 
he ain’t no hell of a dog musher, that anyone ever 
heard tell of, an’ the dogs would have to be jist 
nach’ly so damn good that they couldn’t lose before 
he could win. No, I guess we all kin kiss our dust 
good bye, er try to git it back bettin’ on some other 
race er fight, er wrastle.” 


130 


North 


‘^Can’t win it back off’n Dalzene/’ growled Rim 
Rock, ‘^He wouldn’t bet less’n he thought he had a 
sure thing.” 

A slow grin overspread Enright’s face as he eyed 
the speaker: “Yeh, but you know, on this here race 
we was kind of workin’ a little, what you might 
call, politics, ourself.” 

The outside door opened and the men turned 
casually to see the newcomer, when with a startled 
exclamation, Enright pushed hurriedly through the 
group, and passing the man without a word, dis¬ 
appeared through the door. 

'‘What in hell ails him?” asked Angel Crabb. 

“Busted out like he’d be’n sent fer, an’ had to 
go!” 

Johnny Atline joined the group, pinching icicles 
from his mustache. 

“Who’s outside, Johnny?” asked Rim Rock, “I 
ketched sight of a dog outfit when you shoved open 
the door. Must be someone Enright is plumb mind¬ 
ful to meet up with.” 

Before Atline could answer, Enright himself re¬ 
entered the room. At the rear of the bar, Dalzene 
was still roaring his challenge between drinks. 
Enright, drew his watch from his pocket and 
meticulously compared it with the bar-room clock. 
“Twenty minutes to four,” he muttered, incredu¬ 
lously, and then he repeated, still staring at the face 
of his watch, Twenty minutes to four!'' 

“Well, what’s so damn curious about twenty 


“Twenty Minutes to Four” 131 


minutes to four?” asked the mail carrier, “It’s be’n 
twenty minutes to four, twict a day ever sence I 
kin remember, but I never heer’d no one ravin’ 
about it before.” 

“Oh, nothin’ much,” replied Enright, “Only, it’s 
jist exactly the time I aim to lay a bet.” 

Carelessly, he sauntered toward the rear of the 
room. Dalzene saw him coming, and a sneering 
grin twisted his lips. “Here’s the man with the 
team of six world beatin’ fish hounds!” he cried. 
“What’s the matter today, Enright, can’t you rake 
up five hundred more dollars, or has yer guts gone 
back on you?” 

“Still got some money left to bet?” drawled 
Enright. 

“Here it is I” the man shook his roll of bills before 
the other’s face. “Twenty-five hundred agin five 
hundred that my dogs wins! I be’n bawlin’ it out 
here fer a couple hours, an’ I hain’t had no takers. 
You Koyukuk sports is sure plumb timid when it 
comes to puttin’ up real money.” 

“Is that all you got?” 

“Every damn cent, except some chicken feed 
that’ll run me till tomorrow evenin’. I’ll have all 
kinds of money then—dust an’ bills—Koyukuk 
dust.” 

“I’ll take it,” remarked Enright, and turning to 
the proprietor of the saloon, he tossed a sack of 
dust onto the bar. “Weigh her out Clem, five 
hundred dollars, an’ lock it up along with Dalzene’s 


132 


North 


twenty-five hundred. I’ll be callin’ around tomorrow 
evenin’ fer both batches.” 

“Haw, haw haw!” laughed Dalzene, as he counted 
out his bills upon the bar, and shoved them over 
to the proprietor, “So you’ll be callin’ around fer 
it will you? Lemme tell you somethin’, Enright. 
I’ll tell you now, seein’ how I got all my money up, 
an’ no objeck in holdin’ out on you. I made the run 
up an’ back yeste’day in nine hours an’ ten minutes! 
The best you’ve did it is around ’leven hours. Why 
them six old pelters of yourn couldn’t win a race 
agin a string of mud turtles! I’ll jest walk off 
tomorrow an’ stop fer lunch at Atline’s, an’ then 
trot in ahead of the bunch an’ collect my wages— 
three thousan’ in dust fer part of a day’s work 
hain’t so pore! I’ve got jest fifteen thousan’ bet, 
at five to one. Nine hours an’ ten minutes, Enright, 
think of that!” 

“Yell,” drawled Enright, turning away, “That 
had ort to git you in fer supper, Dalzene, “But the 
bets’ll all be cashed, an’ a lot of the money spent 
’fore you even see the smoke of Nolan.” 

“What d’ye mean?” 

“No use sp’ilin’ yer fun,” grinned Enright, 
tauntingly, “You’ll find out tomorrow.” And, 
deliberately he walked away and joined the group 
at the forward end of the bar. 

Instantly, he was besieged by a chorus of 
questions: “What in hell did you lay that bet 
fer?” 


“Twenty Minutes to Four” 133 


must be plumb crazy, sendin’ good money 
after bad! What ails you?’’ 

“What’s twenty minutes to four got to do with 
it?” persisted the mail carrier. 

“Jist this,” answered Enright, speaking slowly. 
“Miss Lou took them dogs of hern over the race 
trail today. She started at eight o'clock T 

“Eight o’clock! An’ back a’ready!” 

“Yer crazy as hell!” 

“She never went the hull ways!” 

“It’s plumb onpossible!” 

“It means,” said Enright, ignoring the exclama¬ 
tions, “that any team that can burn up the snow like 
that is good enough to carry my money no matter 
who drives ’em.” 

“But, I tell ye, she couldn’t of gone the hull 
distance!” insisted the man from Sheep Creek. 

“The hell she didn't!" exclaimed Johnny Atline, 
whose presence had been entirely forgotten in the 
interest that had centered upon Enright’s last bet. 
“I know, ’cause I was up to my cabin, an’ I rid 
down with her. She rested ’em ten minutes at the 
turn, an’ they carried double cornin’ down—^her 
an’ me, both. I’ve saw dogs I thought could run 
before—but Gawd!" 


CHAPTER XIII 
THE START 

The camp of Nolan was early astir the following 
morning. The entertainment committee, consisting 
of Crim, the trader; Clem Wilcox, proprietor of the 
Aurora Borealis Saloon; and Henshaw, keeper of 
the road house; had decreed that the dog race was to 
start at eight o’clock, in order that the other events 
should be out of the way before the finish of the 
race late in the afternoon. 

At six o’clock Old Man Gordon accompanied his 
daughter to the dog kennels which, in the land of 
the strong cold, is a necessary adjunct to every road¬ 
house. Lou handed her father the canvas bag con¬ 
taining the balls of tallow and rice: “You had better 
feed them this morning, dad,” she advised, “Begin 
with Skookum and toss one to each. Then, we’ll 
harness them and take a turn or two on the river. 
It won’t do any harm for them to understand that 
it’s all right for you to be driving. They’ll work 
for you, Fm sure—if you will keep the whip oflF 
of them and don’t confuse them with too much 
yelling at critical moments.” 

Strangely enough. Old Man Gordon meekly 
acquiesced in everything the girl suggested. He 

134 


The Start 


135 


had read disapproval of his decision to drive the 
race in the faces of the men of Nolan—a disapproval 
that, while it merely served to strengthen the deci¬ 
sion, nevertheless burdened him with a sense of 
responsibility. 

“I took them over the whole course, myself, 
yesterday,” Lou informed him when they were 
upon the river. “And I made it in seven hours and 
forty minutes.”^ 

“Ye did!” exclaimed the man in astonishment. 
“Why, lass, it don’t seem possible.” 

“I did it, though. And I rested them for ten 
minutes at the turn. You must rest them there, too, 
if you run them all the way up. The trail is good 
and fast, and plenty of room to pass except in a few 
I stretches. But remember this: Don’t use the whip 
or crack it close to Skookum’s ears! Oh, why 
won’t you let me drive?” 

“I’ve told ye ’tis a man’s job, an’ that’s an’ end 
to it,” he replied, and the girl accepted the ultimatum 
as she noticed that the lines hardened at the corners 
of the old man’s mouth. 

“You take them down and back for a mile or so,' 
and get all you can out of them. I want to be 
sure they understand that they’ve got to run for 
you.” 

**Down an’ back!” exclaimed Gordon, “Why not 
up an’ back? There’s a gude wide trail all cleared 
for the finish.” 

Lou smiled: “We don’t want to take a chance 


136 


North 


that they’ll stop, or even hesitate at that same place 
when the race is on. They might think that is what’s 
expected of them.” 

Ten minutes later Gordon halted the team at his 
daughter’s side: “They done fine!” he cried, They’ll 
win! Never I seen such runnin’ as they done.” 

“They ran, all right,” admitted the girl, “But I 
think we can get a little more out of them at the 
start and the finish. We’ll see. Try again, now. 
Only, this time let me start them. And when you 
come in on the return. I’ll stand here and see if I 
can’t get an extra spurt out of them at the finish.” 

Once more the team was headed down river, and 
the girl gave the command to start. The get away 
was smoother and faster than before, and on the 
return, as soon as the dogs were within earshot, she 
advanced a little distance, and giving a shrill whistle, 
turned and ran. 

At the familiar sound the dogs redoubled their 
efforts, and a few moments later the great ten teagi 
was at her side. 

“Better yet?” cried the old man, “’Tis the way 
• we’ll work it in the race.” 

“Why don’t you leave the whip behind?” asked the 
girl, “I think you will do much better without it 
because, really, you don’t need it to get speed out of 
them, and a little whipping, at the wrong time, may 
lose the race.” 

“Losh, lass! Who ever heard of drivin’ dogs 
wi’out a whip? I’ll take the whip, but I’ll mind 


The Start 


137 


what ye’ve said, an’ I’ll be sparin’ of it. But, 
there’s times when the sting of the lash is gude meat 
for any dog.” 

The dogs settled their bellies onto the snow, and 
father and daughter seated themselves upon the sled. 
Overhead the stars glittered, their brilliance not yet 
paled by any hint of dawn. Voices came from the 
direction of the camp, and presently the forms of 
men could be seen making their way through the 
Arctic gloom. More forms appeared. Nolan was 
assembling for the start. 

Enright drew near with Lou’s six dogs harnessed 
to a clumsy sled. He greeted the two with a grin, 
and seating himself on his sled, made a great show 
of limbering up his dogs. 

The Gordons soon found themselves the centre 
of a close standing group of men, who eyed the dogs 
appraisingly, and conversed among themselves in 
undertones. From beyond the encircling crowd a 
gruff voice called loudly. 

^‘Hello, Enright! Takin’ the kinks out of them 
freight hounds? What’s the excitement over 
yender?” A moment later Dalzene forced his way 
through the crowd, and stared open mouthed 
astonishment at the great ten team that lay strung 
out on the snow at his feet. One by one he 
scrutinized the dogs, his eyes resting for what 
seemed a full minute upon Skookum. In the crowd 
someone snickered: “What’s the matter, Dalzene ? 
Froze yer tongue?” 


138 


North 


The taunting words goaded the man to sudden 
fury: '‘What the hell’s cornin’ off here?” he roared, 
facing the men of Nolan with blazing eyes, “Whose 
dogs is them? Where’d they come from? They 
don’t git in on this race! My money’s up agin 
Koyukuk dogs! You don’t run in no ringers on me I 
Who the hell do you think I am ? I wasn’t made in 
a minute I” 

Clem Wilcox stepped close and faced the in¬ 
furiated man: “Maybe you wasn’t,” he said, in 
a voice that cut cold, “But you’ll be gittin’ made 
over in about a minute if you don’t quit yer cussin’ 
where ladies is. Up here on the Koyukuk we 
respects women. An’ what’s more you don’t happen 
to be runnin’ things up here, neither. Them dogs 
is entered fer this here race, all proper an’ regular 
an’ they’re goin’ to run. They’re Koyukuk dogs, 
belongin’ to the Gordons down on Myrtle-” 

“Myrtle! You can’t work that on me! Cold- 
foot’s dead, an’ Myrtle’s dead an’ forgot about!” 

“Mebbe you’ve fergot about it,” grinned Wilcox, 
“But, you wont never fergit it no more, Dalzene.” 

“I tell you I won’t run agin them dogs. I ain’t 
supposed to run no seven dog team agin’ a ten dog 
team! All bets is off! I won’t run!” 

“Jest as you say, Dalzene. It won’t make no 
particular difference to the boys whether you run or 
not. But the bets rides. I happen to be stakeholder, 
an’ it was made plain that if anyone hauled out, his 
bets loses.” 



The Start 


139 


“Besides which,” added Enright, who had joined 
the group, “We didn’t hear no particular kickin’ on 
your part when you figgered on runnin’ seven dogs 
agin my six.” 

The enraged man whirled on the speaker: “You 
know’d damn well them dogs of yourn couldn’t 
run!” he roared, “I’ve be’n hornswaggledI It’s a 
frame-up I” 

“Ain’t it hell I” taunted Enright. “But, cheer 
up, Dalzene, it sure grieves us to see you onhappy. 
An’ say, if it’ll ease yer mind any, I don’t mind 
lettin’ you in on a secret—seein’ all yer money’s 
up, an’ we can’t git no more bets off’n you. That 
there team rambled over the trail to Johnny Atline’s 
an’ back yesterday, in seven hours an’ forty minutes, 
an’ carried double half ways. That’s jist an hour 
an’ a half better than that there pack of muscle- 
bound flea pastures of yourn done it.” 

Dalzene turned to Wilcox, “Jerk out three of 
them dogs, an’ I’ll run!” he demanded. “I ain’t 
goin’ to run no seven dogs agin’ a ten dog team.” 

Wilcox laughed: “Suit yerself. If you don’t 
toe the mark at eight o’clock, which is in ten minutes 
from now. I’ll begin payin’ off bets, an’ we’ll go on 
with the show.” With a muttered oath, Dalzene 
turned and elbowed his way through the grinning 
crowd. 

“Might’s well draw fer place, an’ get that settled,” 
remarked Grim. “They’s only three entries, so here 
goes.” Tearing a paper into three small squares, he 


140 


North 


numbered them with a stubby pencil, placed them in 
his cap, and after shaking it a bit, offered Gordon 
the first draw. 

“Number Two!” announced the old man, holding 
the scrap of paper to catch the light of the paling 
stars. 

Enright drew Number One, and chose center 
place, leaving Gordon free to chose the space to his 
left which was the better position. 

“Git set!” cried Wilcox, “an’ take yer instruc¬ 
tions.” 

The teams moved into position, Dalzene’s sullen 
rage manifesting itself in blows of his whip upon 
his cringing dogs. 

Wilcox stepped before them: “The race is to 
Johnny Atline’s an’ return,” he announced. “Bill 
Britton’s up there to see that all teams goes the hull 
route. The driver an’ sled, an’ every dog that 
starts has got to cross the line at the finish, an’ the 
outfit that crosses first wins. The committee, con¬ 
sistin’ of I, an’ Grim, an’ Henshaw is the judges, an’ 
Johnny Atline is the starter.” Wilcox paused and 
allowed his eyes to rest on the sullen face of 
Dalzene. “All passin’ on the trail must be done on 
the haw side. Any interferin’ whatever with another 
team will be a foul, the driver or team doin’ the 
interferin’ is throw’d out. Onnecessary crowdin’ 
hittin’, or hittin’ at, another team with the whip, 
throwin’ anything, or any other ways interferin’ 
with the runnin’ of a team is a foul. The trail’s 


The Start 


141 

plenty wide fer passin’ except in one or two 
stretches, an’ if any team piles up on one of them 

places, he s got to haul out, an’ let the other teams 
pass.” 

''Who’s goin’ to prove this here interferin’?” 
growled Dalzene. "S’pose this here Gordon says I 
interfered, an’ claims a foul, it’ll be his word agin 
mine.” 

"In such case,” replied Wilcox, looking his ques¬ 
tioner squarely in the eye. 'It will be up to the 
judges which one to believe. We know you both, 
an’ in decidin’ we’ll naturally take the one’s word 
that’s got the best reputation. Git set, now. Atline, 
he’ll count three, an’ then fire his revolver, an’ at the 
crack of the gun you’re off!” 

Lou Gordon took her place beside the sled upon 
which her father was seated. "Be careful of the 
whip, dad,” she whispered, nervously. "I’ll start 
them, and I’ll be here at the finish.” 

Dalzene caught the last words. "Hold on, there 1” 
he roared, "What business has that woman got 
startin’ them dogs? Git her out of there! If she’s 
goin’ to drive that team, she’s got to go the hull 
distance.” 

"Shut up, Dalzene!” called Wilcox. "Her givin’ 
the word to the dogs on the start ain’t drivin’ ’em. 
You got a right to have a dozen yellin’ at yourn on 
the start if you want to.” 

Dalzene subsided, and Atline took his position: 
"Ready! One. Two. Three.” Bang! At the report 


142 


North 


of the gun Lou Gordon’s voice rang clear. “Mush! 
Skookum, Mush-u! Mush!” Instantly the ten big 
dogs started, and before the words had fairly left 
the girl’s lips, they shot away over the ice, gaining 
speed at every jump, so that as the teams blurred 
and were swallowed up in the gloom of the Arctic 
day, the big ten team was well in the lead. 

“First distance race I ever seen that took a ridin’ 
start,” opined Grim, “The trail’s awful fast. They 
ort to make good time.” 

“They will make good time,” declared Lou 
Gordon, “If dad will only sit tight and forget his 
whip.” 

“That’s some dog—that leader. Miss Lou,” 
ventured Atline. “I don’t suppose you’d sell him?” 

“What, sell Skookum! No sir! There isn’t dust 
enough on the Koyukuk to buy Skookum. No dog 
in that team is for sale. But, that reminds me, Pete 
Enright said you wanted to buy a couple of dogs. 
The six that he is driving are for sale.” 

“No, mom, they ain’t,” grinned Atline. “Enright 
he said how you was holdin’ ’em at a hundred apiece. 
It’s a pretty stiff price fer dogs when they ain’t no 
stampede on, but we know your dogs is worth 
more’n the common run, so I bought two, an’ Joe 
McCorkill, took two, an’ the mail carrier took two. 
The dust’s waitin’ fer you in Grim’s safe. Here 
comes Enright, now.” 

“Gome on, Enright!” yelled a man in the crowd, 
which having witnessed the start, was already dis- 


The Start 


143 


persing and straggling back into the camp. Others 
took up the cry, and standing upon his sled whirling 
his whip high above his head, Enright dashed cross 
the finish line amid a chorus of good natured 
banter: 

^‘Hooray fer Enright!’’ 

“Five minutes an’ two seconds! That’s the 
world’s record fer fifty miles!” 

“Enright wins a can of corn!” 

“Wait till I thrash my bananas, an’ I’ll hang a 
wreath of ’em around yer neck!” 

“Watermelons would look better!” 

“Much obliged, gents!” laughed Enright, “But, 
what’s more to the p’int, while these here decora¬ 
tions is bein’ got ready, let’s go up to the Aurora 
Borealis an’ I’ll buy a drink!” 

“That sounds reasonable!” agreed Rim Rock, 
“an’ then we kin go ahead with the wrastlin’ match 
an’ the fist fight.” 

“Boxin’ exhibition, you rough neck!” corrected 
Wilcox. 

“Why sure,” seconded Enright, “The idee of 
callin’ it a fist fight! Rim Rock, you blood-thirsty 
devil, you ain’t fit to be heard talk in p’lite society! 
This here is goin’ to be a strictly scientific sparrin’ 
match—bare fisted, with gougin’, bitin’, an kickin’ 
not barred, an’ pulled off all in one round of an hour 
and ten minutes, onless a knockout is secured in the 
meantime. Come on you malamutes! The dance 
hall for us till time fer the finish of this race!” 


144 


North 


Hailing the three men who had bought the six 
dogs, Enright turned them over. “Here you all, 
divide up yer dogs. We sure had Dalzene fooled 
good an’ proper with ’em. They’re good dogs, 
too, but they wasn’t no use runnin’ ’em over the 
trail agin them other teams, so when they got out 
of sight, I hauled out.” 

On the walk back to camp, Enright fell in beside 
Lou Gordon: “Well, Miss Lou, the last I seen of 
’em yer pa was leadin’ by about a good pistol shot, 
an’ goin’ strong. I believe he’s agoin’ to win this 
race.” 

“If he can keep well ahead so he won’t think he 
has to use his whip he will probably make it almost 
as fast as I could. The dogs are a little bit used to 
having him drive them. But, if Dalzene should 
overtake him and try to pass. I’m afraid something 
will happen. Dad will get excited and the first thing 
he will do will be to use the whip, and then the 
v/hole team will go to pieces.” 

“Yes, but if that dirty hound of a Dalzene fouls 
him, we win anyhow.” 

“I almost wish I hadn’t told dad to rest them at 
the turn. That may give Dalzene a chance to pass, 
and I’m afraid dad never could regain the lead 
without mixing up.” 

“He’ll be so fer ahead at the turn that he kin 
rest ’em fer an hour an’ still keep the lead,” opined 
Enright. “Anyways, I’m satisfied my money’s on 
the right team. An’ now about these here wrastlin’ 


The Start 


145 


an’ boxin’ stunts. Do you want to see ’em? If 
you do, I’ll see that you git a good seat.” 

“No, thank you. I’ll visit with Mrs. Crim until 
the ski and snowshoe races, and the tug of war 
come ofif.” 

“All right. Miss Lou, an’ don’t worry about that 
race. I really believe we’re a-goin’ to win. An’ if 
we do, she’s worth about nineteen hundred dollars 
to you.” 

“Nineteen hundred dollars!” cried the girl, stop¬ 
ping and peering into the man’s face in wide-eyed 
surprise. “Nineteen hundred dollars! What do 
you mean?” 

“Why, don’t you remember I told you that in case 
we win the boys thought that it wouldn’t be more 
than fair to add ten percent of their winnin’s to the 
prize? Well, Dalzene’s got fifteen thousan’ bet on 
this race. An’ ten percent of that is fifteen hundred, 
an’ the race stakes is four hundred, an’ that makes 
nineteen hundred.” 

“Nineteen hundred dollars,” breathed the girl, as 
they walked on through the gloom, “That’s a lot of 
money.” 

“Yes, Miss Lou, it’s quite a heft of dust fer a 
girl to clean up. But it ain’t nothin’ to what you 
could make if your dogs win this race—an’ I ain’t 
so sure I wouldn’t try it if I was you, even if you 
don’t win.” 

“Try what? What do you mean?” 

“I mean the Alaska Sweepstakes. Take them 


10 


146 


North 


dogs over to Nome in the spring an’ run ’em agin’ 
some real dogs. An’ if they win today they’ll be 
plenty of Koyukuk dust over there to back ’em. 
They don’t know nothin’ about your dogs over there, 
so the odds ort to be right promisin’.” 

“Oh, do you think I could—really? I—win the 
Alaska Sweepstakes!” 

They had reached the door of the Aurora Borealis 
through which the men were already crowding. 
“Well, Miss Lou, I ain’t sayin’, of course, that you 
could win. But, I will guarantee that them dogs 
of yourn will give anything they’ve got over there 
a run fer their money.” And, as Enright turned to 
enter the door, Lou Gordon proceeded on toward 
the trading store, with her brain in a whirl. 


CHAPTER XIV 

THE FINISH 

At three-thirty in the afternoon, with the other 
events of the celebration out of the way, all Nolan 
once more collected upon the river. Great bonfires 
of spruce tops and loppings were built upon the ice 
behind the finish line. For a half-mile or more up 
river, the first and the last half-mile of the race trail, 
the ice was bare of snow, or rather, the snow had 
become incorporated into the ice by reason of a great 
overflow which had taken place several days before. 
It was an ideal stretch for the finish, broad as the 
river itself, and with a surface smooth, but not the 
glassy smoothness of glare ice. 

It was a scene not soon to be forgotten. The 
Arctic darkness of the middle of the afternoon dis¬ 
persed by the yellow-red glare of the flames that 
crackled and roared as they leaped high above the 
heaps of dry spruce, which sent showers of red 
sparks skyward with each addition of fuel. The 
tense, excited faces of the men and women grouped 
about the fires. The quick, nervous laughter. The 
curious blending of hoarse voices. The continuous 
short journeyings to the outer rim of the firelight, 

147 


148 


North 


and the intent peering up river toward a spot a 
mile and a half away where the stream narrowed 
between two cut banks. For it was from that point 
that the first tidings of the race would be flashed. 
A man had been stationed on top of each cut bank, 
each with a heap of dry wood waiting for a touch 
of the match to make it spring into flame. Should 
Gordon be first to sweep through the cut only one 
fire would be lighted. If Dalzene was leading two 
fires would blaze out simultaneously. 

Lou Gordon did not mingle with the crowd about 
the fires. Out in front of the finish line, well with¬ 
out the circle of the firelight, she stood straining her 
eyes up river. Now and then, to overcome the chill, 
for the thermometer registered thirty below zero, 
she paced back and forth upon the ice, but always 
her eyes stabbed the outer darkness for the first 
glimmer of light that would tell of the race. Be¬ 
side her, Enright, scarcely less vigilant, sought to 
relieve the tense strain that gripped the girl to 
the very soul. Inside those heavy mittens, the man 
knew that the girl’s nails were biting into the flesh of 
her palms. 

“Four o’clock. Miss Lou,” he announced. “I 
didn’t figger he’d make it as quick as you did. But 
he don’t need to. Dalzene’s best time was nine 
hours an’ ten minutes. That’s what he bragged on. 
It might be an hour or more yet, before they show 
up. You run along back to the fires an’ mix with 
the folks a little. It’ll do you good, I’ll wait here 


The Finish 149 

an’ beller out the news list the second I git the first 

flash.” 

But the girl would have none of it, as with tight- 
pressed lips she answered with a shake of her head. 
Back and forth, back and forth she paced with 
quick, nervous strides, or standing motionless as 
a carved statue, sought vainly to pierce the outer 
dark. 

“Half past four,” announced Enright, “They’ll 
be showin’ up soon, now. Another half hour an’ 
we’ll know.” 

But, in another half hour they did not know. It 
was quarter past five, and still no flash from up 
river. The girl’s tense excitement had communi¬ 
cated itself to the others. There was no murmur 
of hoarse voices now—and no laughter. The outer 
rim of firelight was crowded, and the deserted fires, 
flared feebly with now and then a flash of brilliance 
as a spruce top fell into the embers. The sound of 
breathing could be heard, and the soft rasp of moc¬ 
casins and mukluks upon the ice. 

Suddenly there was a sound, a quick swishing 
sound that was a sharp in-gasping of breath. 

''Look!” The voice of a dance hall girl cut shrill 
and thin with excitement. Men and women stood 
frozen in their tracks, as far away in the depths of 
the blackness a tiny flare of light appeared. Seconds 
passed—tense fraught seconds—seconds of silence, 
absolute, profound, as hundreds of eyes focused 
upon that single ever increasing flare of flame. 


150 


North 


fire! Ifs Gordon!” With a bellow the 
voice of Enright shattered the unnatural silence. 
Instantly, a pandemonium of sound blared forth. 
Men seemed to go crazy. Caps and mittens flew 
into the air. Men grabbed dancing girls and whirled 
them over the ice in a mad waltz. Others locked 
arms and jumped foolishly up and down, howling 
like beasts. In the pandemonium the voices of the 
judges were drowned as they charged frantically up 
and down trying to drive the crowd behind the 
line. 

“Go back! Git back! Dammit, youVe in front 
of the line!’^ Gradually other men helped, and 
within a few minutes the crowd was being forced 
slowly back, howling and dancing like demons. 

Then, suddenly came a great calm. Once more 
every eye was staring into the dark. Where only 
a moment before a single fire had burned, two fires 
now flared. 

“God!” cried a man hoarsely, close to Lou Gor¬ 
don’s side, “Two fires! Dalzene!’^ 

A low murmur, sullen, growling, swept the 
crowd. The excitement was gone. Slowly, mutter¬ 
ing, they receded toward the dying fires. 

“What—what does it mean?” faltered Lou Gor¬ 
don, who paused at the line to stare at the two dis¬ 
tant fires. 

“Fm ’fraid it means. Miss Lou, that Dalzene’s 
leadin’. But the race ain’t over yet.” 

“But—the signal!” cried the girl, in a voice that 


The Finish 151 

faltered and broke. “Surely—it—was—one—fire. 
And now—two.” 

“I s’pose one of ’em had trouble lightin’ his fire, 
an’ the other one got the start,” explained Enright. 
“We’d ort to be seein’ the dogs presently.” 

Together they stood and strained to catch the 
first dim blur of motion. Behind them the crowd 
hugging the fires, seemed suddenly to have lost all 
interest in the race. 

Lou sprang forward: “Look! Look! I can see 
them! It’s—it’s Dalzene! But—Oh, look! Look! 
Dad’s right behind! Here they come!” With a wild 
cry that broke into a sob, the girl leaped forward. 
Behind her the crowd came to life as from an elec¬ 
tric shock. As a man, they crowded the finish line, 
peering into the gloom. 

Lou Gordon was running toward the oncoming 
dogs. 

Voices roared from the crowd: “Come on, Gor¬ 
don !” 

“Whip ’em! Whip’em!” 

“Gordon I” 

“Gordon!” 

A shrill whistle cut the air. Enright leaped to 
the line where the judges already waited expectantly. 
''Shut upr his voice bellowed like thunder, causing 
a momentary silence, during which the voice of Lou 
Gordon out on the ice could be heard: 

“Hi, Skookum!” Again the shrill, peculiar 
whistle, followed by words of encouragement. 


152 North 

‘‘Skookum! Skookum! Mush-u, Skookum! 
Hi, mush! Mush!” 

Suddenly the girl turned and ran for the finish 
line. Hardly more than a hundred yards away 
Dalzene’s dogs were running straight for the line. 
His voice could be heard howling at the dogs, and 
his arm rose and fell like a flail as he whipped. 

A wild yell broke from the crowd which watched 
with bulging eyes. Gordon’s dogs seemed suddenly 
to have sprung into being side by side with Dal- 
zene’s. Fifty yards, now! Again that shrill whistle. 
Gordon’s arm rose and fell. There was a sudden 
swerve of the great leader as he seemed to spring 
at Dalzene’s lead dog. Shrill and loud the whis¬ 
tle from the lips of the girl once more cut the air. 
The leader swerved again—away from Dalzene’s 
team. A loud cry forced itself from a hundred 
throats. Gordon’s light sled was on its side. His 
dogs were plunging neck and neck with Dal¬ 
zene’s ! 

“He’s draggin’! He’s holdin’ on!” 

“Hold on, Gordon!” 

“Fer God’s sake! Git out of the way!” 

“Here they come!” 

“Give ’em room!” 

“Hold on!” 

“Hooray! Gordon! Gordon! Gordon!” Once 
again the crowd went wild. “Plumb clean crazy 
wild,” as Enright later described it. “Fer, By God, 
them dogs with eyes a shinin’, and’ a-glarin’, an’ their 


The Finish 


153 


muscles fair bulgin’ their hides, drug Old Man Gor¬ 
don acrost the finish half a length ahead of Dal- 
zene! Yessir drug him holdin’ on to the handle 
bars, face down—a-ridin’ on his whiskers!” 


CHAPTER XV 


“MINER’S MEETIN’ ” 

For a good half hour following the spectacular 
finish of the dog race pandemonium reigned on the 
Koyukuk. Fresh fuel was heaped upon the red 
embers of the fires and in the light of the leaping 
flames the men and women of Nolan gave them¬ 
selves over to a wild orgy of noise. Lou Gordon 
and her father were lifted bodily onto the shoulders 
of strong men and a leaping, dancing, howling pro¬ 
cession was formed that wound in and out between 
the fires. Like a mad man Dalzene pranced about 
in a vain effort to make himself heard. The furious 
bellow of his hoarse voice but added to the general 
din, and those who noticed him at all paused in 
their jubilation to thumb their noses with yells of 
derision. 

It was not until the men of Nolan, crowding the 
bar of the Aurora Borealis, waited for Wilcox to 
open his safe that the man was able to make himself 
heard. His red face distorted with rage, he clawed 
his way to the bar upon which he pounded with 
mittened fist. His cap pushed back so that its ear 
flaps, their strings a-dangle, stuck straight out from 
the sides of his head, showed a forehead glistening 

154 


“ Miner’s Meetin’ ’ 


155 


with sweat, Bisected by a thick blue vein that stood 
out in the acetylene glare with startling distinctness. 
As Wilcox swung wide the door of his safe and rose 
to his feet, Dalzene faced him with blazing eyes: 
*‘Pay them bets, an’ pay ’em to me!” he roared, and 
disregarding the mighty chorus of jibes and jeers 
that rose on all sides, he continued, “Damn you, you 
can’t frame me! I win that race, an’ I drag down 
all bets!” 

A slow irritating grin greeted the announcement. 
“Oh, you win it did you? Now, that’s curious. 
My eyesight ain’t so bad, an’ it looked to me like it 
was Gordon’s dogs that romped over the line first. 
But, mebbe I was wrong. The other two judges is 
here. We didn’t take no formal vote on it yet, so 
we might as well do it now. Hey Crim, who win 
that race?” 

“Gordon win it!” answered Crim. 

“Henshaw, who win that race?” 

“Gordon did.” 

“It’s a damn lie!” roared Dalzene. 

“We’ll talk about that, later,” answered Wilcox 
in a voice of ominous quiet, “But, in the mean time, 
the vote of the judges is unanimous that Gordon win 
the race, aw’ the bets will be paid accordin’.” 

“He fouled me, an’ besides, he never brung in all 
he started with.” 

“Seems to me I seen ten dogs, an’ a sled, an’ him 
hanging’ on to it like all hell couldn’t jerk him loose, 
when the outfit crossed the line ahead of youm.” 




156 


North 


“How about his whip that he lost when his sled 
tipped over?’’ there was an exultant gleam in the 
narrowed eyes. 

‘‘The whip don’t cut no figger,” informed Wil¬ 
cox, “I stated it plain that sled, dogs, an’ driver had 
to cross the finish line, an’ they did. An’ as fer the 
foul, when do you claim he fouled you?” 

“Right there on the smooth ice! That damn big 
leader of his’n made a dive fer mine an’ throwed 
him out of his stride!” 

Wilcox laughed: “You’d ort to picked out a 
play that we didn’t all see to claim a foul on, 
Dalzene. Gordon’s leader wasn’t within fifteen 
foot of yourn at no time, an’ what’s more your 
leader never went out of his stride, neither.” 
Reaching into the safe Wilcox withdrew a packet. 

“Pete Enright!” he called, loudly, “This belongs 
to you. It’s the last bet you made. Here’s yer 
five hundred in dust, an’ yer twenty-five hundred in 
bills.” 

“Don’t you pay that bet!” screamed Dalzene, 
furiously pounding the bar, “You can’t rob me! 
Fifteen thousan’ dollars of good money gone to 
hell! You can’t rob me!” 

Clem Wilcox was a small man, in physical esti¬ 
mate, but what he lacked in weight he more than 
made up in nerve and agility. Hardly were the 
words out of Dalzene’s mouth before Wilcox had 
hurdled the bar and as his two feet struck the floor 
his fist landed with a vicious twist on the point of 


“Miner’s Meetin’” 


157 


Dalzene’s chin. Again Wilcox struck, and again, 
and clawing feebly at the bar, Dalzene sank slowly 
to the floor. 

“YouVe called me a liar an’ a robber,” said Wil¬ 
cox, quietly, to the man that lay on his back blink¬ 
ing foolishly into his face, “You’ve got my personal 
answer to that. But likewise you’ve insulted the 
whole Koyukuk—an’ now you’ll git yer answer to 
that.” He faced the men who crowded about him. 
“I’d say, boys, the case calls fer a meetin’.” 

“A meetin’s right!” 

“A meetin’!” 

“Miner’s meetin’! I nominate Wilcox fer chair¬ 
man !” 

Wilcox shook his head, and held up his hand for 
silence: “Not me, boys. We don’t want it said 
they was anything personal in it. I nominate Pete 
Enright. All in favor signify.” 

A chorus of affirmation greeted the words, and 
before it had subsided Dalzene scrambled groggily 
to his feet and leaned against the bar for support. 
“Hold on! Hold on, boys! Don’t call no meetin’ I 
You got me wrong! I-’’ 

“Meetin’s called!” announced Enright, “Shut 
up!” Seating himself legs a-dangle, upon the end 
of the bar, Enright motioned for Dalzene to be 
brought before him. The man’s face was livid as 
he was ungently jerked into a position facing En¬ 
right. He groped for words: “You got me 
wrong- ** 




158 


North 


r 


^^Shut up,” again commanded Enright, “You’ll git 
a chanct to do yer lyin’ later.” He glanced over 
the faces crowded about him. “Boys,” he began, “Is 
they anyone kin show cause why this here party 
name of Jake Dalzene ain’t a low down, whifflin’ 
skunk of a rot-gut peddler that ain’t wanted on the 
Koyukuk ?” Enright paused and let his glance travel 
slowly over the silent faces. 

“All them in favor of turnin’ him loose an’ allow¬ 
in’ him to stay amongst us an’ come an’ go as he 
likes, is called on to signify.” Again he paused, and 
no word being ventured in Dalzene’s behalf, con¬ 
tinued, “All right, boys, this bein’ a lawful an’ duly 
organized miner’s meetin’ for dispensin’ with jus¬ 
tice, we’ll hear a few suggestions. Gents, what’s yer 
pleasure?” 

“Git a rope!” 

“Send him on the Long Traverse!” 

“Hang the son of a-!” 

“If we had some tar we could tar an’ feather him, 
if we had some feathers!” 

“Send him back to Rampart where he come 
from-” 

“-with his hands tied behind his back, like 

they done on the Chilcoot!” 

“You tell us, Enright!” 

“That’s right! What you say goes!” 

“Put it to a vote!” 

Enright eyed in disgust the white faced man who 
cringed before him. “Dalzene,” he said, “You’ve 





159 


"Miner s Meetin’” 

heard the suggestions, an’ you’ve got to admit that 
to any right minded man they’re all fit an’ proper. 
The sense an’ the will of this meetin’ seems to be 
plain that here in Nolan we’d ruther have yer room 
than yer company. Facts is, Dalzene, yer about as 
pop’lar on the Koyukuk as a litter of fleas in a bed¬ 
roll. Now, they’s several ways of exterminatin’ a 
man from where he ain’t wanted. Some is more 
thorough than others. One of the most convincin’ 
is a rope applied vertical from the man’s neck 
to a rafter.” Enright paused, Dalzene’s eyes 
seemed about to pop from their sockets, and he con¬ 
tinuously wet his lips with his tongue. “But, us 
Koyukukers ain’t no ways a bloodthirsty race. 
They’s some of us would ruther let a man live than 
kill him. We aim to do the right thing by you. 
We ain’t hard men, but we’re purposeful.” He 
turned abruptly toward the crowd: “Boys, what I 
suggest is that we let this bird go back down to Ram¬ 
part where he come from. He ain’t no ways fittin’ to 
live amongst white men, nohow—nor Si washes 
neither, for that matter—but that’s their hard luck. 
All them in favor of this, signify, an’ I’ll pass sen¬ 
tence.” 

A chorus of “Ayes” ratified the suggestion, with 
here and there a word of dissent by those who 
favored more drastic measures. But the dissenters 
were in the minority, and Enright silenced them. 

“All right, boys, she’s carried.” 

“And now, Dalzene, you listen to me, an’ if yer 


i6o 


North 


judgment’s good you’ll act accordin’. Yer dogs 
bein’ tired, you’ll be give twelve hours to leave 
Nolan, an’ leave it fer good. It’s six-thirty now. 
By six-thirty tomorrow' mornin’ you’ll be mushiii’ 
down the river. An’ you’ll keep on mushin’ till yer 
plumb off the Koyukuk. An’ you ain’t never to 
show yer face on the river, nor no part of it, nor no 
river nor crick that runs into it, from now on. Yer 
outlawed on the Koyukuk. From six-thirty to¬ 
morrow mornin’ it’s open season fer you the year 
around. An’ any man ketchin’ you on the Koyukuk 
from then on, an’ don’t kill you on sight, is shirkin’ 
his public duty, an’ a traitor to the Territory of 
Alaska. You ain’t the kind of man that’s wanted 
on this river. News of the rulin’ of this here meetin’ 
will go down river clean to the Yukon with the mail 
carrier, an’ they ain’t a man on the Koyukuk but 
what will abide by it. If you’ve got anything to 
say, say it now.” 

Dalzene had recovered his nerve to a great extent 
as the course of Enright’s remarks drew away from 
the idea of the rope. For he knew the temper of 
miner’s meetings, and well he knew that had En¬ 
right seen fit to have put the suggestion of hanging 
to a vote it would have carried as easily as the order 
to stay off the river had carried. And he also 
knew that having passed sentence the men would 
abide by their decision, and that, for the present, he 
was in no danger of physical violence. So it was 
with an air of truculence that he addressed Enright: 


“ Miner’s Meetin’ ” 


i6i 


“Yer a hell of a bunch of sports, you be I Frame a 
man, an’ bust him, an’ then start him off on a six 
hundred mile trail without grub enough to git him 
half ways! You, Pete Enright, you’ve warned me 
off one of the best tradin’ grounds I had, an’ how do 
you expect me to make Rampart without grub nor 
dog feed?” 

Enright grinned: “Well, Dalzene, it looks from 
here like you was the one to worry about that, not 
me. An’ as fer knockin’ you out of yer tradin’ 
grounds, it’s time us white men begun to give a 
little thought to the Siwashes. I was thinkin’ 
mostly of them when I was passin’ sentence.” 

“What damn business is it of yourn if I make an 
honest livin’ off’n the Injuns?” 

“Try it on the Koyukuk Injuns an’ you’ll have a 
long time in hell to figger that out fer yerself.” 

With a snarl, Dalzene turned to Crim, the trader: 
“Am I good fer a couple hundred pounds of grub 
an’ dog feed?” 

“If you got the dust to pay for it you are,” an¬ 
swered Crim. 

“I tell you I’m broke!” whined Dalzene. 

Crim shrugged, and turned away. 

“I suppose you’ll stand me off fer a couple of 
drink’s Wilcox, seein’ we’re in the same business.” 

“You kin guess agin, then, Dalzene,” answered 
Wilcox, “An’ don’t make that mistake—about us 
bein’ in the same business. I do mine legal, open 
an’ above board with white men. I don’t sneak 


IX 


i 62 


North 


trough the brush tradin’ rot-gut to Injuns fer ten 
times what it’s worth, an’ takin’ the fur they need 
fer grub in pay fer it.” 

“I need a couple of drinks an’ I’d buy ’em if I had 
more’n jest enough on me to pay Henshaw fer my 
tonight’s lodgin’.” 

“Don’t save it fer me,” snapped Henshaw. “I 
ain’t got no room. I’m full up.” 

“But, I got a room there, now. I’ve had it fer 
ten days. I paid you up this mornin’, but I didn’t 
give up the room!” 

“It’s give up all the same. A party from Noo 
Orleens reserved it. I’m expectin’ him on the first 
train.” 

With an oath Dalzene drew a silver dollar from 
his pocket and slammed it onto the bar: “Give me 
a couple of drinks!” he growled. 

Wilcox looked him squarely in the eye: “Yer 
money ain’t no better here, Dalzene, than what yer 
credit is. They’s party from Panama bought up 
all my stock. He’d ort to be waftin’ in most any 
time, now.” 

In the room not a man laughed. For the space 
of seconds Dalzene stood staring straight in front of 
him. Then, slowly his eyes traveled over the faces 
of the men that crowded the room, but not one 
friendly glance met his. Nor did a single un¬ 
friendly one. Yet every eye in the room was upon 
him—^hard, level stares that bored through, and be¬ 
yond him, yet took no note of him. It was un- 


“ Miner’s Meetin’ ” 163 

natural. Why didn’t someone laugh at the pre¬ 
posterous excuses of Henshaw and Wilcox? It 
was suddenly as if he, Dalzene, had ceased to exist. 
He was alone. From the life of the camp—from the 
men of the camp, he was a thing apart. His credit 
was no good. Even his money was no good. A 
great wave of self-pity swept over him. His 
shoulders drooped, and clutching his dollar tightly 
in his hand he turned and slunk from the room. 

The night air revived him somewhat, but even 
that could not stimulate his broken spirits to even a 
semblance of the mighty fury to which he was 
addicted. He was unutterably lonely, with the 
bitter loneliness of a man forsaken of his kind. In 
a sort of dull apathy he bent his steps toward the 
roadhouse, whose frosted panes showed a yellow 
square of light. Pushing through the door he stood 
blinking in the lamplight. A girl sat beside the 
stove reading. She glanced up, and with a start 
Dalzene recognized the woman who had that morn¬ 
ing sat upon the sled with Gordon, and whose start¬ 
ing of the dog team he had protested. The morning 
of this same day—not quite twelve hours ago—and 
it seemed years. And twelve hours from now he 
would be alone upon the river, mushing southward 
—alone—alone. The man drew a deep breath. 
Maybe this girl would speak to him—would talk to 
him if only for a few minutes. She was reading 
again. After that first swift impersonal glance that 
held in it nothing of approval or of disapproval— 


164 


North 


even of recognition, her eyes had returned to the 
open page. Surely, this girl could know nothing 
of the miner’s meeting, yet her glance had been the 
same impersonal glance of the men in the saloon 
after their vote had segregated him from his kind. 
Dalzene cleared his throat harshly, and endeavoring 
to inject an ingratiating note into his voice, spoke: 
^‘Good evenin’. Miss, didn’t I see you this mornin’ 
down on the river?” 

“You did,” answered the girl, without raising her 
eyes from the book. 

“Ain’t you Old Man Gordon’s darter?” 

“I am.” 

“My name’s Dalzene.” The announcement ap¬ 
parently went unheard. “Where’s yer pa? I didn’t 
see him in the saloon.” 

“He’s in bed. He hurt his knee at the finish of 
the race.” 

“Too bad. I hope it ain’t hurt much.” 

“Not badly, I guess, just stiffened up.” 

“I don’t bear yous no grudge fer winnin’ the 
race.” Dalzene paused, expecting a reply, but re¬ 
ceiving none, he continued: “Do you know if he 
would sell that dog?” 

“What dog?” 

“That leader of his’n. Pretty fair lookin’ dog. 
I might buy him.” 

“He’s not for sale.” 

“I might go a hundred dollars.” 

“I get that for culls,” 


“ Miner’s Meetin’ ” 165 

**You do! Be they your dogs?’* 

‘‘Yes.” 

“Well, two hundred.” 

“He’s not for sale.” 

“That’s alright, but folks’ll sell anything they got 
if the price is right. What do you hold him 
at?” 

“I said he is not for sale. Do you understand? 
That dog is not for sale.” 

“How about one of them malamutes, then, er 
two of ’em.” 

“No dog in that team is for sale!” exclaimed the 
girl, for the first time raising her eyes to his. “And 
if I had a thousand dogs for sale and you were to 
offer/me a thousand dollars a-piece for them, I 
wouldn’t sell you a single dog. Not after seeing the 
brutal way you handled your own dogs.” 

“Oh, come now. Miss. I know all about dogs. 
Anyone’ll tell you that. It ain’t no use gettin’ sore 
at me.” He stepped a little closer. “Mebbe—it 
might be such a thing, we could kind of work up a 
deal, an’ go pardners. I make plenty money. Why, 
I lose fifteen thousan’ on that dog race today, an’ 
you don’t hear me kickin’, do you? What’s fifteen 
thousan’, when they’s plenty more where that come 
from? What d’you say? What’s on Myrtle? 
She’s worked out an’ dead. Throw in with me an’ 
we’ll go where we kin have some fun—down on 
the Yukon, or over to Nome, that’s where the bright 
lights is.” As the words poured from the man’s 


North 


166 

lips he gained confidence. The ingratiating tone 
gave place to something of the gruff bluster that had 
become habitual with him. His eyes, quick to note 
the physical beauty of the girl, lighted as he talked, 
with a bestial gleam of lust. The girl’s eyes had re¬ 
turned to her book. Dalzene waited for her to 
speak. She turned a page. “Well, what d’you 
say?” His voice had regained its accustomed rasp. 
“If yer a-goin’ with me, we got to be mushin’. You 
think it over while I drag my pack out of my room. 
I’m hittin’ the trail right now.” The man disap¬ 
peared abruptly through a door and a few moments 
later reappeared, dragging a bulging pack sack and 
a bed roll. Before the outer door he released his 
burden and straightened. “Coin’?” he rasped. 

The girl’s eyes were still upon the open page. It 
was as though she had not heard. Only for an in¬ 
stant the man stood silent, and in that instant a 
mighty rage surged up within him. He took one 
swift step forward and fixed her with blazing eyes: 
“Yer just like the others! Won’t have nothin’ to 
do with Jake Dalzene! Well, the time’ll come when 
you will talk to him—an’ talk pretty! Yer safe 
enough up here where yer friends is. But you ain’t 
seen the last of me yet! You can’t rob me out of 
no fifteen thousan’ an’ git away with it. Time’ll 
come when you’ll learn that Jake Dalzene don’t 
never fergit!” 

Without looking up, Lou Gordon turned another 
page, and muttering to himself, Dalzene jerked the 


“ Miner’s Meetin’ ” 167 

outer door open and dragged his belongings onto the 
hard packed snow. 

Passing around to the rear of the roadhouse 
where his dogs were chained to their allotted kennels 
he paused suddenly. All about him the snow was 
lighted by the reflection of a brilliant wavering 
aurora, and as he looked the sacking over the door 
of one of the kennels was thrust aside, and Skookum 
stepped out onto the snow and walking to the end 
of his chain, eyed the motionless man in silence. 
Dalzene’s eyes glittered as they took in the lines of 
the superb brute; the rangy legs, the long powerful 
body, and the mighty shoulders. Fascinated he 
stepped closer, staring into the yellow eyes that 
glowed like live coals. Cautiously his mittened 
hand reached out as if to caress the broad head, and 
instantly it was jerked back as the great silent 
brute crouched with bared teeth. 

“Oh, thaPs it, is it? Damn you! You’d eat a 
man up if you onct got goin’. Well, I kin take that 
out of you!” 

For a full minute the man stood eyeing the dog, 
while his brain worked rapidly. Then, swiftly he 
returned to the corner of the roadhouse and peered 
down the street. No one was in sight. From the 
direction of the saloon came the muffled tinkle of 
the dance hall piano. It would be late this night 
when the men of Nolan would seek their beds. They 
were celebrating his defeat—spending his money! 
Gordon was in bed with a stiffened knee. The girl 


North 


16*8 

was absorbed in her book. All Nolan was occupied 
in its own affairs. The dogs had long since been 
fed. No one would visit the kennels until morning 
—and by morning he could be far to the southward 
—even far off the Koyukuk—the Fort Hamlin short 
cut! He knew the trail, forgotten these several 
years. In the morning pursuit would be too late. 
The only team on the Koyukuk that would have any 
chance to overtake him would be demoralized for 
want of a leader—and, once on the Yukon—they 
would search for him at Rampart City—but, they 
wouldn’t find him! To hell with Rampart! To 
hell with his squaw! He was going to haul out any¬ 
way pretty soon. That missionary from Fairbanks, 
damn him, was stirring up the authorities down to 
Fort Gibbon in regard to his hooch running activi¬ 
ties, but more especially in regard to the parentage 
of certain half-breed children who had been 
abandoned to the care of their mothers in the miser¬ 
able cabins of the native village. The hooch running 
they could hardly prove—he was wise enough for 
that—but the half-breed children, if the squaws who 
had received nothing but abuse at his hands, should 
talk, would be more awkward. He could hole tq:) 
for a while in an abandoned cabin he knew on the 
head of Dali River, where he had a cache of grub 
and dog feed to last a month, and when the pursuit 
from Nolan had swept by down the Koyukuk and 
the Chandalar, he could cross the Koyukuk and hit 
straight for Nome. 


^'Miner’s Meetin’” 


169 


Swiftly he harnessed his own dogs, and armed 
with a heavy blanket, the half of a dried fish, and a 
babiche line, he again approached Skookum who 
eyed his approach sullenly. Halting just beyond 
reach of the chain, Dalzene tossed the piece of fish 
onto the snow at Skookum’s feet. And as the dog 
lowered his head to take it, Dalzene, the blanket out¬ 
stretched in both hands leaped straight upon the dog, 
bearing him onto the snow by sheer weight. A low, 
muffled growl came from the folds of the tightly 
held blanket, as the great brute thrashed furiously 
to rid himself of the weight. But, Dalzene had 
handled bad dogs before, and using his body, his 
legs, and his arms, he was able to hold the struggling 
animal while his hands tightened the blanket about 
the mighty jaws. Then, deftly he released a hand 
and the next instant the slip knot in the end of the 
babiche line tightened about the dog’s throat and 
three or four adroitly turned half hitches secured 
his blanket wrapped jaws. It was but the work of 
a few minutes to encompass the thrashing legs in 
the blanket, where coil after coil of the line held the 
great dog trussed like a roasted turkey, and the work 
of a few more minutes to lash him securely upon the 
loaded sled. 

Fifteen minutes later Dalzene reached the river, 
pausing on the bank to shake his mittened fist toward 
the double square of light behind which he knew the 
men of the Koyukuk were making merry in the 
Aurora Borealis. A string of blasphemous curses 


170 


North 


that ceased only when the man’s- imagination had run 
the gamut of all things foul and vile, poured from 
his lips, and in his unreasoning fury, slashing at his 
dogs with his whip, he turned and headed down 
river alone under the aurora-shot Arctic sky. 


CHAPTER XVI 
OFF THE RIVER 

Before noon the following day all Nolan knew of 
'the disappearance of Skookum. And all Nolan 
knew also, that the disappearance of the great lead 
dog had happened simultaneously with the disap¬ 
pearance of Dalzene. And Nolan was neither slow 
nor loath to establish the relationship between the 
two occurrences. With tears in her eyes, Lou Gor¬ 
don told of her conversation with Dalzene, and of 
the man’s angry threats before he departed. Where¬ 
upon another miner’s meeting was hastily called in 
the Aurora Borealis, a substantial reward was posted 
for the return of the lead dog, and certain resolu¬ 
tions were adopted which had to do with a more 
permanent and conclusive disposition of Dalzene 
than warning him off tho river. 

Shortly after adjournment of the meeting two 
dog teams pulled out of Nolan and headed south¬ 
ward down the Koyukuk. The men camped that 
night in one of the deserted buildings of Coldfoot, 
and next morning Johnny Atline and Rim Rock 
swung off the river and headed eastward across the 
South Fork for the Chandalar in hope of overtaking 
the fugitive at Caro or Chandalar native village, 


172 North 

while Pete Enright and the mail carrier kept on 
down the Koyukuk. 

At the roadhouse, midway between Cold foot and 
Betties it was reported that Dalzene had stopped for 
breakfast the previous morning, but had pushed on 
down the river without resting. Inquiry revealed 
the fact that the man was driving seven dogs, and 
that, to the best of the roadhouse proprietor’s know¬ 
ledge, there had been no other dog riding on the 
sled. He was very sure that had there been another 
dog he would have noticed it. After informing the 
man of the pronouncements of the miner’s meetings, 
the two pushed on. 

“He’s sure be’n makin’ good time,” opined the 
mail carrier, when they were once more upon the 
trail. “Them dogs of his’n’ll know they be’n some- 
wheres time he gits to where he’s goin’.” 

Enright nodded, “An’ if I was in his place,” he 
answered “Twic’t as fast as the best time I could 
make wouldn’t be no more’n about half as fast as I’d 
want to be goin’. Mebbe he’s figgerin’ on restin’ 
his dogs at Betties.” 

“Kind of cur’us about him only havin’ seven dogs. 
You don’t s’pose that there Skookum dog could of 
got away hisself ?” 

“No,” answered Enright, “He wouldn’t never 
leave Miss Lou. Him an’ her’s like two pardners. 
He ain’t never kep’ on a chain or in a corral only 
except they’re away from home. No, Dalzene’s 
got him all right, but he ain’t takin’ no chances with 


Off the River 


173 


him. He knows damn well that dog ain’t a-goin’ to 
let him handle him without a fight, an’ he ain’t in 
no shape to waste no time tryin’ him out. He had 
him all right, prob’ly on^his sled tied up an’ covered 
with a tarp.” 

“Wisht they was some new snow so we could 
track him,” ventured the mail carrier. “This trail’s 
in better shape than I ever seen it, most.” 

“Yes, but we kin see if he leaves it. He’s got to 
leave a trail if he branches oflF—an’ where in hell 
would he branch to?” The mail carrier shook his 
head dubiously; “He’s a pretty slick, an’ he knows 
the country down this way better’n what we do. 
Git us ofif’n the river, an’ we don’t know nothin’, but 
he’s ofT’n it half the time tradin’ hooch to the 
Siwashes.” 

“Slick don’t give him no license to fly. He’s got 
to leave a trail wherever he hits off the river.” 

Despite their anxiety to reach Betties they camped 
that night on the trail, and it was nearly noon the 
following day when they drew up before the trading 
store to find that Dalzene had left the previous 
morning after having laid in some three hundred 
pounds of supplies on credit. 

“You better figger on losin’ that there bill of 
goods, then,” grinned Enright, “But a sled load of 
grub ain’t goin’ to bust the Company, nohow.” 

“What do you mean, Pete? I don’t like Dalzene 
no more’n you nor no one else does, but he makes big 
money, an’ he’s good,” 


m 


North 


may be good all right, but he’s goin’ to be a 
damn sight more good than what he is, soon as one 
of us up-river men runs acrost him.” 

“What do you mean?” 

“I mean that we held miner’s meetin’ on him 
Chris’mus night an’ warned him out of the Koyukuk 
country, an’ next day we held another an’ sort of 
widened the territory, you might say, to include the 
rest of the world.” 

“What’s he be’n doin’ up-river?” 

For answer Enright gave a brief, but compre¬ 
hensive, survey of the situation to date, at the 
conclusion of which the trader picked up his book 
and opening it, drew a line around the list of Dal- 
zene’s supplies. Below the entry, and included 
within the line, he wrote “Lost in freightin’.” 
Then, to Enright he said: “I’ll pass the word to 
the boys, Peter. Chances is, you up-river fellows 
won’t git no crack at him noways, ’count on him 
havin’ to pass here to git there—if he ever comes 
back.” 

“Where you headin’ now, Pete?” 

“Rampart City.” 

“Alone?” 

“Yeh, that is. I’ll be alone after Fort Gibbon. 
Joe, here, he’ll have to head north with the mail 
agin.” 

“You want to keep yer eyes open down to Ram¬ 
part. Dalzene, he’s the only white man livin’ there 
now. ’Course them Yukon Injuns is plumb gently 


Off the River 


175 


an’ cowardly, but keep an eye on ’em. Dalzene he’s 
got too many wives amongst ’em fer to take no 
chances.” 

“Hell! They’d be glad to see him git what’s 
cornin’ to him! I’ve heard tell how he abuses ’em. 
Treats ’em worse’n what he treats dogs, an’ then 
kicks ’em out an’ takes another one.” 

“Um-hum,” grunted the trader, “But that don’t 
give you no license to horn in on it. Wimmin is all 
alike—white er red.” 

Late that afternoon the mail carrier halted the 
dogs and he and Enright stooped to examine a trail 
that led off the river to the eastward following the 
snow-buried course of a small creek. 

“Only five dogs an’ a toboggan,” said Enright, 
after an interval of careful scrutiny. “Some 
Si wash trapper, see his tracks. Dalzene had Yukon 
shoes. I seen ’em.” The mail carrier agreed and 
the outfit moved on down the river, and as they 
swept out of sight around a bend, Dalzene arose 
from the snow behind his screen of scrub bushes on 
the rim of a high bluff and removing the cartridge 
from the chamber of his rifle returned to his camp 
in a spruce thicket, and prepared for a two days’ 
rest. 

And a much needed rest it was, for almost from 
the moment of pulling out of Nolan, the man had 
been forcing the trail. And it was owing solely to 
the splendid condition of his seven great malamutes, 
just in from the fifty mile race, that he had been able 


176 


North 


to keep ahead of, and even to gain on his pursuers. 

Dalzene was no fool. Traveling in the night 
down the Koyukuk from Nolan, he had resisted the 
impulse to swing eastward at Coldfoot when by 
crossing the South Fork, and a high divide, he could 
have headed down through the wind-swept Chanda- 
lar Gap, and thus avoided being seen by any one for 
upwards of a hundred miles. He knew a better 
plan, and in the carrying out of this plan it was 
within his scheme of things to be seen at the road¬ 
house, and later at Betties. For having ascertained 
that he had pulled southward from Betties, his pur¬ 
suers would take it for granted that he would follow 
the main trail to Fort Gibbon. And except for the 
remote possibility of their meeting someone on the 
trail, they would be unable to check up on his move¬ 
ments until the Yukon was reached, for the new mail 
trail to Fort Gibbon leaves the river and swings 
southward before the native village of Arctic City is 
reached. 

At the roadhouse he had stopped to feed his dogs 
and eat breakfast, and had immediately pushed on, 
arriving at Betties, forty miles down the river, late 
that night. In Betties he hunted up one, Andrew, a 
worthless half-breed who had occasionallyhelped him 
to dispose of hooch among the Indians. Andrew’s 
cabin was well on the edge of the camp, and there 
Dalzene spent the remainder of the night, and there 
he fed his dogs liberally, all except the unfortunate 
Skookum, who, still wound in the blanket, he carried 


Off the River 


177 


into the cabin and deposited upon the floor without 
even so much as loosening a turn of the babiche line 
that had held him in his cramped position on the 
sled without food or water for nearly thirty hours. 

It was Dalzene’s intention to strike away from the 
river a few miles below Betties, and hit for the 
cabin at the head of Dali River, but the thing that 
had been worrying him all the way was how to 
leave the river without leaving a trail for his pur¬ 
suers to follow. This difficulty solved itself quite 
by accident, as he was devouring the meal Andrew 
prepared for him. Standing against the wall in a 
corner of the cabin was a toboggan. Now, the to¬ 
boggan is rarely used on the Koyukuk, the river 
trails being without exception sled trails. Only 
those Indians whose hunting grounds lay in the soft 
snow country to the eastward of the river traveled 
with toboggans, and it was from one of these 
Indians that Andrew had got it in trade. The 
moment his eyes fell upon it, Dalzene knew that his 
problem was solved. He would pull out of Betties in 
the morning with a sled, but he would leave the river 
with the toboggan, and instead of his own Yukon 
snowshoes, he would be wearing Andrew’s Siwash 
shoes. 

A trade was easily effected and early in the morn¬ 
ing Andrew pulled out with Skookum on his tobog¬ 
gan, and with orders to wait some eight or ten miles 
down river until Dalzene came up with him. Dal¬ 
zene lost no time in transferring his load to the te¬ 


xt 


North 


178 

boggan, and when Andrew pulled back up river with 
the sled, the hooch runner pulled two dogs out of 
his team and toggling them, threw them onto the 
sled for, although it was a serious tax on the strength 
of the remaining dogs, he would leave the sign of a 
five dog team, whereas his pursuers knew that he 
was driving seven. This accomplished he struck 
into the hills with the toboggan, after following the 
windings of the creek some three miles, swung into a 
spruce thicket and made camp. 

That at least one dog outfit would start on his 
trail as soon as the men of Nolan discovered the loss 
of the girl’s lead dog, Dalzene had no doubt, and he 
calculated with remarkable accuracy that the pur¬ 
suers would not pass the point where his trail swung 
from the river before noon of the following day. 
Therefore he went about the preparation of his 
camp deliberately. He even pitched his small A tent, 
cut boughs for a bed, and set up his stove. Come 
what may, he knew that this camp must be of several 
days’ duration. His dogs needed a thorough rest, 
for no man could afford to take chances in the wind¬ 
swept, almost treeless stretch of country between the 
South Fork of the Koyukuk and the head of Dali 
River, with played-out dogs. 

Having fed his team, Dalzene turned his attention 
to Skookum, and after locating the dog’s collar ring 
with his fingers, he carefully worked back the edge 
of the blanket and snapped on a strong chain. This 
done, he dragged the dog to a nearby tree to which 


Off the River 


179 


he affixed the chain and unwound the babiche line. 
The moment the last turn of the line loosened, the 
great dog struggled to his feet, threw off the blanket 
and with a low growl of fury tried to leap at 
Dalzene’s throat. But weak from hunger and 
thirst, and with the muscles of his legs cramped and 
stiffened and lamed by upwards of forty hours in 
the tightly bound blanket, his effort was but a pitiful 
lunge that landed him head foremost in the snow at 
the man’s feet. For Dalzene had taken no chances, 
and stood just beyond reach of the chain. 

The man laughed aloud as the dog staggered to 
his feet and with lowered tail, wolfed down great 
mouthfuls of snow. Walking to the tent, he picked 
up a dried fish and securing a stout club, again ap¬ 
proached the dog which ceased eating snow to glare 
at him with his smouldering amber eyes, and emit 
low, menacing growls. Marking well the limit of 
the chain, Dalzene held out the fish. He noticed 
that the dog’s nostrils quivered as the scent of the 
food reached him, but instead of taking it from the 
outstretched hand, Skookum leaped again, straight 
at the man’s face. Dalzene’s right arm swung and 
with a vicious crack, the inch-thick club of green 
wood met the dog’s skull in mid air. Skookum 
collapsed in the snow, lay still for a moment, 
and dizzily regaining his feet, stood swaying 
weakly. 

“You will, will you?” sneered the man, “You 
damned devil, you! I’ll tame you! When I git 


i8o 


North 


through with you you’ll know who’s boss! I’ll 
tame you, or By God, I’ll kill you I” 

Once more he tendered the fish, but the dog made 
no move to take it, his half-closed, smouldering 
eyes glaring at his tormenter sullenly. After a few 
moments of fruitless trying, Dalzene gave it up for 
the time being. “If you wasn’t so damn valuable 
I’d let you starve before I’d give you anything to 
eat without you took it out of my hand,” he grum¬ 
bled, “But I don’t dast to take a chanst of losin’ 
you; I need you in my business. It’s me fer Nome, 
an’ if I kin pick up a couple more good dogs, with 
you fer a leader. I’ll git in on them Alaska Sweep- 
stakes. Here’s yer fish, but mind you it’s the last 
one you git, without you take it out of my hand.” 
He tossed the fish at the dog’s feet, but the yellow 
eyes never lowered their gaze, and with an oath, 
Dalzene stuck the club into the snow, and returning 
to the tent wrapped himself in his blankets and slept. 

So utterly body weary was he that it was nearly 
noon next day before he awoke and lighted the fire 
in his stove. Tossing a fish apiece to the dogs, he 
took another and advancing upon Skookum, pulled 
the club from the snow and approached to the end 
of the chain. Only for an instant did the yellow 
eyes rest upon the club, then their gaze centered on 
the face of the man. Dalzene stretched out his 
hand, and mincingly grudgingly, with back hair a- 
quiver with hate, the great dog came forward and 
took the proffered fish. Dalzene laughed: “Learn 


Off the River 


i8i 


some sense did you? Oh, Fve handled mean dogs 
before. You better not try any monkey business 
with me, or I’ll cave in yer ribs.” Returning to the 
tent, the man bolted a hasty meal, and picking up his 
rifle, threw a cartridge into the chamber, fastened 
on his snowshoes, and started for the river. 

Now, the last thing in the world Dalzene wanted 
to do was to kill a man. Yet, he well knew that 
unless his dogs got a good rest they would never 
make Dali River through the deep snow. And he 
knew, also, that should the pursuers swing onto 
the toboggan trail that left the river, and come upon 
him in his camp, they would without the slightest 
hestitation make short shrift of him. “It’s them ’er 
me if they take my trail, no matter which way you 
look at it,” he muttered. “An’ if they ain’t more’n 
four or five of ’em it’s goin’ to be them.” 

A half hour’s tramp brought him to the rim of a 
high bluff which he followed to a point that gave an 
uninterrupted view of the Betties trail, of the point 
of departure of his own toboggan trail, and of the 
narrow creek valley that the toboggan trail 
traversed. Concealing himself behind a screen of 
scrub bushes, the man noted with satisfaction that 
anyone traversing the valley must pass within easy 
range of his rifle, with absolutely no chance to seek 
cover, or to scale the bluff and come to close quart¬ 
ers. “An’ they can’t work no sled up through that 
deep snow, neither,” he grinned. “If they tackle 
that trail it’ll be back-packin’—an’ they won’t git 


North 


182 

far. The way things lays, I’m good fer a dozen of 
’em. But—at that—I don’t want to have to do it. 
Someone would git me—some time—an’ when they 
did—” his voice trailed into silence, and he shud¬ 
dered. 

The sky was cloudless, and far to the southward, 
from his vantage point, he could see the red disk of 
the sun, visible for a few minutes above the horizon. 
He watched it till it disappeared. “Hell of a coun¬ 
try, this here, north of the circle,” he growled, “Day¬ 
light all summer, an’ night all winter. Nome’s 
better’n what this is, anyway. I’ll lay up in the cabin 
fer a couple weeks, an’ then I’ll hit fer the Kobuk, 
an’ on to Nome. I got plenty grub an’ dog feed to 
last.” For some minutes after the sun went down 
the man scrutinized the up-river trail. He shivered. 
“Gittin’ colder,” he muttered, “Damn ’em! They 
chased me off the river, an’ now the strong cold’s 
cornin’ on, an’ me in the God fersakenest strip of 
country they is anywheres. I bet she’s fifty below 
down there on the river, right now.” He rose to his 
feet and took a turn up and down the snow, taking 
care to keep well back from the rim of the bluff. 
This performance he repeated at intervals, pausing 
behind his screen to peer into the deepening twilight 
of the up-river trail. After a couple of hours his 
vigil was rewarded. A dark spot appeared on the 
snow, and concentrating his gaze the man saw that 
the spot was moving. It was a dog outfit coming 
down the trail. Grasping his rifle, Dalzene threw 


Off the River 


183 

himself upon his belly and peered over the edge. 
He made out two men and a dog team. At the 
parting of the trails they stopped to examine the 
fresh toboggan track. After some moments they 
walked back to the sled. They were—yes—they 
were moving on down the river. Breathing an oath 
of relief as they passed out of sight around a bend, 
the man rose to his feet, threw the cartridge from 
the chamber of his rifle, and walked back to camp. 

That evening he tossed Skookum a ball of rice 
and tallow, and next morning he proffered another 
fish which the great dog took from his hand in the 
sullen manner of the previous day with his eyes on 
the inch-thick club. 

Despite the fact of the strong cold, Dalzene de¬ 
cided to attempt the twenty mile stretch of treeless 
waste that lay between him and the South Fork of 
the Koyukuk which must be crossed in order to 
reach the head of Dali River. ^T’ll rest easier when 
Fm a little further off the Koyukuk,” he grumbled, 
“There's timber where the Jim River runs into the 
South Fork, an' I kin rest up fer the forty mile pull 
to the cabin.” 

What to do with Skookum was a problem. He 
hated to add the dog’s weight to his load in the deep 
snow, and yet he knew that the great brute was not 
sufficiently cowed to allow him to harness him into 
the team. “Guess Fve got to tackle it. Might's 
well git it over with now as any time. My own 
leader’ll foller along.” In the tent, he made a 


184 


North 


muzzle out of babiche. It was a cruel muzzle, 
known as a ‘‘persuader,’^ or twitch, and used only 
by the more brutal of the dog mushers of the North. 
It consisted of two loops about the jaws, one a fixed 
loop, held in place by lines running to the collar, and 
the other a running loop at the end of a long twitch 
line playing through a small fixed loop, or eyelit in 
one of the lines to the collar. Thus a jerk on the 
twitch line in the hand of the driver would cause 
the running loop to bite cruelly into the dog’s jaws. 
The refined deviltry of the twitch consists in admin¬ 
istering the jerk at a moment when the laboring 
animal’s sweat-dripping tongue lolls from between 
his teeth. And Dalzene was a past master in the 
refinement of cruelty, as witness the devilish cunning 
with which he affixed the muzzle. Approaching 
close to the end of the chain he tossed a running 
noose about the dog’s neck and by main force 
dragged the struggling, choking brute in a circle 
that narrowed as the chain wound about the tree. 
With the dog’s body hard against the tree a few 
tightly drawn turns of the babiche line held the 
animal helpless until the muzzle was in place. Cut¬ 
ting the noose, he released the babiche line, and un¬ 
wound the chain by dragging the dog around the 
tree by the twitch. After which he picked up his 
club and approached the muzzled Skookum, who 
when he saw the man was well within reach of the 
chain, launched himself at his face. The thick club 
descended with a muffled thud along the dog’s ribs. 


Off the River 


185 


A single whimper of pain escaped him as he fell into 
the snow to be viciously jerked to his feet by the 
twitch. Eyes glaring, Skookum crouched at the 
end of the twitch line and Dalzene laughed as a 
drop of blood from the dog’s mouth reddened the 
snow. ‘‘Guess that’ll learn you they ain’t no pretty 
faced gal a-handlin’ you now! I’ve got you an’— 
I’ll git her, too! Some of these fine times I’ll be 
slippin’ back to Myrtle Crick. They’s only her an’ 
the old man left over there—an’ with Coldfoot 
dead, it’s a hell of a ways from the neighbors.” 

It took a good half hour and much clubbing to 
get Skookum into the lead dog’s harness, but at last 
it was accomplished, and with the outfit ready for the 
trail, Dalzene took his place beside the leader, club 
in one hand, twitch line in the other, and gave the 
command to mush. Skookum made no move to 
obey, and the club fell upon his back. Instantly he 
whirled and hurled himself upon the team, vainly 
trying to sink his fangs into their thick coats. But 
the muzzle rendered him harmless, and a moment 
later, with the harness in hopeless tangle, the dogs 
piled onto the new leader, ripping and tearing at 
their helpless victim. Dropping the twitch line, 
Dalzene sprang among them, raining blows and 
furious curses as he beat them to the ground. When 
some semblance of order was restored, he released 
the dogs and set himself to the task of untangling 
the harness. As he removed the lead harness he 
kicked the bleeding Skookum to his feet. 


North 


186 

“You will, will you? Td ort to let ’em et you up! 
But I didn’t resk stealin’ you fer nothin’. I need 
you, or I’d kill you, an’ kill you slow, with a club. I 
ain’t got time now to work you in the lead, but you 
wait till we git to Dali River! I’ll tame you 1 An’ 
you’ll work till you git there, too! I won’t haul 
you, an’ I don’t dast to turn you loose, so you’ll 
work behind, an’ Mick, kin run loose. 

“Mush on, there!” cried the infuriated man, when 
he finally succeeded in stringing the team out. And 
with their own leader in his accustomed place, the 
dogs pulled. Sore and bleeding, Skookum moved 
along with the rest, his head hanging and his plume 
held low. And so the traverse of the desolate 
barren to the South Fork was accomplished, Dalzene 
breaking trail and urging on his dogs with whip 
and voice. It took thirteen hours for the twenty 
miles, but as he crawled between his blankets that 
night the man breathed easier. 

The forty miles to the head of Dali River was 
made in two days, after one day of rest. Skookum 
traveled between the traces and gave very little of 
his strength to the pull, a fact that brought him 
much abuse by whip and twitch, whenever Dalzene 
could spare time from trail breaking. 

On reaching the head waters of Dali River, the 
man ensconced himself in the cabin. Skookum, his 
muzzle removed, was left on the end of his chain, 
tethered to a tree, where each day for a week, Dal¬ 
zene took fiendish delight in provoking an attack and 


Off the River 


187 

then knocking the great dog down with his club. 
The procedure never varied. Each morning Skoo- 
kum took a fish from the hand that Dalzene extended 
to the extreme limit of the chain, and always his 
yellow eyes were fixed on the club the man held in 
his right hand. Later in the day Dalzene would 
approach with the hated muzzle in his left hand in¬ 
stead of the fish, and then it was that the yellow 
eyes would blaze, the hair bristle along the dog’s 
back, and the low growl rumble continuously from 
the mighty throat. ‘T’ll tame you, damn you! One 
of these days yer goin’ to stand while I muzzle you 
without windin’ you up, an’ I’ll keep on knockin’ 
you down till I do!” The man would approach to 
just within the limit of the chain, the dog, lips 
drawn back to expose the gleaming white fangs, 
would crouch in the snow, his yellow eyes blazing 
hate, and with muscles taut, would launch his 
eighty-five pounds straight at the man’s face. A 
quick backward spring, and the heavy club would 
crash against the great body in mid air, and Skoo- 
kum would fall in the snow to stagger to his feet and 
glare his abysmal hate. 

At length came a day when the strong cold gave 
way before heavy clouds. The temperature rose to 
near zero, and early in the morning snow began to 
fall, Skookum took his fish as usual, and with¬ 
drew to the tree to eat it, and Dalzene stood for a 
moment and watched him. 

“We’ll be pullin’ fer Nome, soon, you hellion! 


North 


188 

An’ we might’s well finish this thing one way er 
another, today. Yer goin’ to work fer me—an’ yer 
goin’ to work in the lead! An’ yer goin’ to begin 
now!” For some moments the man studied the 
superb lines of the great dog. He had been wiser 
had he studied the chain, and still wiser had he 
noted that upon several occasions during the week 
of torture, before the body of the huge brute had 
fallen into the snow, it had described a half turn 
which had caused the chain to kink close against the 
collar. But of this Dalzene knew nothing and an 
hour later he approached through the driving snow 
storm, muzzle in one hand, club in the other. In¬ 
stantly the great dog crouched. The yellow eyes 
glared, the throaty growl rumbled savagely and be¬ 
neath his body the mighty muscles of his legs 
tensed. With outstretched hand the man drew just 
within the limit of the chain, his fingers tightening 
upon the club. It was the first warm day, and he 
had thrown off his heavy mittens. Like a flash the 
great dog hurtled out of the snow straight for his 
face. He leaped backward, club arm raised to 
strike at the instant the chain checked the dog in 
mid-air. A shriek of mortal terror froze on Dal- 
zene’s lips as the chain parted. Instinctively the 
hand that held the muzzle was thrown up to guard 
his face, and in that instant the hand was seized in 
a grip of iron, as he was hurled backward into the 
snow. A single agonizing flash of pain shot to the 
man’s shoulder as the gleaming fangs ripped 


Off the River 


189 

through the flesh to the bone. The next moment he 
realized that the hand was free, and that the great 
dog had disappeared in the storm. 

Struggling to his feet, Dalzene rushed for his 
rifle, but by the time he reached the cabin, Skookum 
had vanished, and staring into the void of whirling 
snow, the man burst into an insane tirade of shrill 
curses. The dripping of warm blood from his fin¬ 
ger tips gave him pause, and he gazed in horror at 
his mangled hand. Then stepping into the cabin, he 
proceeded to bandage it as best he could with strips 
torn from an extra shirt. 

That night he could not sleep for pain, and next 
morning, with much difficulty, he harnessed his 
dogs, and headed southward down Dali River. 
“Might’s well hit fer the Yukon,” he muttered sav- 
agely. “They won’t have nothin’ on me down there, 
now that I ain’t got the dog. An’ there’s an army 
doctor at Fort Gibbon.” 


CHAPTER XVII 
SKOOKUM! 

Back at Nolan the men of the Koyukuk had a 
hard time to dissuade Lou Gordon from accompany¬ 
ing the men who took Dalzene’s trail. Beside her¬ 
self with grief and rage, the girl vowed she would 
trail the thief to the ends of the earth, and would 
shoot him if necessary to recover the great dog that 
was the pride of her heart. Better council pre¬ 
vailed, however, and she consented to let the men 
take the trail, with the proviso that in case they 
should return without the dog, or evidence that he 
was dead, she herself would strike straight for the 
Yukon and would never return until she had found 
Skookum. 

It was with a heavy heart that two days later, she 
and her father, whose knee had recovered sufficiently 
to stand the trail, loaded their sled with provisions, 
and with the malamute, Kog, in the lead traces, 
headed back for Myrtle. 

“Ye’re a fine lass, my daughter, to be givin’ the 
old man the half of yere winnin’s,” said Gordon, 
when they were once more back in their own cabin 
on Myrtle, as he added the contents of a gold sack 
to his precious “biler” fund, “The way it is now, 

190 


Skookum! 


191 


the dump won’t have to show nothin’ big to have 
enough to set that b’iler on the claim. An’ then, 
lass, ye’ll see! I’ll show ’em! I’ll begin takin’ out 
the dust so fast I’ll have ’em all back on Myrtle! 
Why, lass, it stands to reason now, don’t it, that 
wi’ cuttin’ wood takin’ more’n half the time fer 
wood thawin’, if ye’d use a b’iler an’ do ye’re thawin’ 
wi’ steam-” 

“Yes, yes, dad. I know. We’ve been all over the 
whole thing thousands of times before. But, oh, 
if Skookum were only here! I hope they catch 
that horrible Dalzene! I hope they kill him!” 

“Tush, tush! Lass, who be ye to be pratin’ of 
killin’! ‘Vengeance is mine, saith the Lord.’ ’Tis 
the word of the Gude Book, itself. Have patience, 
lass, an’ I make no doubt, Enright an’ Rim Rock, 
an’ Johnny Atline will find ye’re dog for ye. But, 
if they don’t, ye can break in another leader.” 

“Another leader!” cried the girl, “Just as if 
leaders like Skookum grew on trees. I tell you there 
never was a leader like Skookum, and there never 
will be! Why, do you know what I was going to 
do ? I was going to Nome and enter my team in the 
Alaska Sweepstakes this spring!” 

“Nome! Ye were thinkin’ of goin’ to Nome! 
An’ run the Alaska Sweepstakes! What talk is 
this? Why, lass, the teams that run the Sweep- 
stakes is worth thousands of dollars. Some of them 
is owned by millionaires, an’ what chance would 
ye’re dogs have against the likes of them?” 



192 


North 


“Just the same, I was going to try. My team is 
worth thousands of dollars, too. I could have won 
their Sweepstakes! But it’s no use to think of it, 
now. With Skookum gone, they’re no better than 
a lot of outfits. Skookum was the dog that made 
the whole team. With Skookum in the lead every 
dog in the team was worth three times as much as 
he is with any other leader. Why, dad, those dogs 
could just fly! I never let them do their best—even 
when I made the fifty miles in seven hours and forty 
minutes, I let them take their time. They were the 
best team in the world!” 

Old Man Gordon smiled: “There, there, lass. 
Ye’ve worked wi’ them dogs so much ye’ve got the 
one idea in ye’re head. Ye should not let ye’re 
thoughts run to one idea. Ye should take a broad 
view of things-” 

“One idea!” cried the girl, “Why, dad, can’t you 
see that you are the one who has let one idea creep 
in and absorb your whole life? You can’t think 
or talk about anything but your old boiler.” 

“But that’s different. It’s a money makin’ scheme 
—a business proposition.” 

“And, so is the Alaska Sweepstakes a business 
proposition! Don’t you know that the prize for 
that race runs anywhere from three to ten thousand 
dollars? And not only that, but think of the money 
it would mean to me in the price of the puppies I 
could sell! Why, dad, if I could win that race, 
you could order your boiler without waiting to 



Skookum! 


193 

clean up your dump—could have it delivered at 
Betties on the first steamboat this summer.” 

‘‘Ye don’t tell me! Are ye sure there’s so much 
money put up on a dog race? An’ if we’d win it, 
would ye let me have the thousand dollars Fm still 
lackin’ fer the b’iler?” 

“Why, of course I would, dad! But, it’s no use 
to think about it, now. Skookum’s gone. And 
without Skookum, we couldn’t possibly win.” 

“Take heart, lass,” encouraged the old man, “The 
boys’ll find him. An’ when is this big race cornin’ 
off?” 

“In April, about the tenth or twelfth. But it’s 
about six hundred miles to Nome. They’ve got to 
find Skookum and get back here by the middle of 
February. Because if we go I want to start by the 
eighteenth. I’ve figured it all out. If we start the 
eighteenth of February we can make Nome by the 
first of April, and that will give me time to take 
the dogs over the course and rest them up for the 
big race.” 

“But, lass, forty days for six hundred miles is 
allowin’ a lot of time. We could make it in a 
month.” 

“Yes, we could make it. But I want to take it 
easy. If we allow forty days, we only have to aver¬ 
age fifteen miles a day. That won’t crowd the dogs 
nor wear them out. It will just keep them in fine 
condition.” 

“Do ye know the way? Is there any trail?” 


13 



194 


North 


“Yes, I know the way. Rim Rock came across 
last winter, and he drew me a map. You go down 
the river to Alakakat Mission, then up the Alatna 
to the Kobuk portage, then down the Kobuk to its 
mouth, then swing south across Hotham Inlet, down 
the Choris Peninsula, and across Eschscholtz Bay to 
Candle, then on down to Council, and then to 
Nome.” 

“But surely, there ain’t enough travel that way 
to give us a trail!” 

“Well, not exactly a trail, all the way,” admitted 
the girl “but we can make it all right. Some of the 
Kobuks that were up at Nolan for the celebration 
came and went by way of the Alatna, so their trail 
will help even if it is snowed under. Then there 
is always some travel up and down the Kobuk. And 
after we reach Candle there is a good trail to Coun¬ 
cil and Nome.” 

The old man shook his head slowly: “I’m feared 
’tis a hare-brained scheme, ye’ve got. But, the 
stakes are worth try in’ for, if ye believe ye’ve got 
a chance to win. What do the boys say? Have ye 
told ’em?” 

“Yes indeed! It was Pete Enright that first sug¬ 
gested it, and I talked with several of the others, 
and they all say that my dogs have a chance, and 
a good chance to win. And if we go they want to 
send ^ lot of dust down to back my dogs. They 
say that the odds ought to be big against them be¬ 
cause nobody off the Koyukuk has ever heard of 


Skookum! 


195 


them.’’ She paused, the light faded from her eyes, 
and as she turned away, her voice trembled; “But 
—it’s no use—without Skookum.” 

The old man comforted her as best he could with 
prophecies of the dog’s early return, but long after 
she had gone to bed he heard her sobbing softly to 
herself. 

As day after day passed with no word from the 
men who had taken Dalzene’s trail, Lou Gordon’s 
spirits sank lower and lower. Her hope of recover¬ 
ing Skookum diminished with each passing day and 
with it came the one big disappointment of her life. 
Ever since Pete Enright had suggested that she 
enter her dogs in the Alaska Sweepstakes, anticipa¬ 
tion of the trip to Nome had filled her mind to the 
exclusion of everything else. Nome! The very 
name breathed enchantment. And, she herself, Lou 
Gordon, should actually see Nome! Nome, with 
its great stores, with its windows glittering with 
diamonds and wonderfully wrought jewelry. With 
its hotel that had running water and wonderful 
white bath tubs that would be filled with hot water by 
the simple turning of a faucet. With its big church 
and its wonderful organ. With its mines whose 
great dumps were piled higher than the top of the 
tallest tree, veritable mountains of pay dirt. And 
all these things that Rim Rock had seen and de¬ 
scribed to her, she should see for herself. Of 
course, she had always known that such things 
existed. In books and magazines they were depicted 


196 


North 


in the advertisements, and were mentioned casually 
in the stories as common appurtenances to the 
everyday life of that wonder land that was the “out¬ 
side.” But her world, far within the Arctic Circle 
—the world she lived and knew, was so far removed 
in her imagination from the world of the great 
“outside” that it had always seemed to her that the 
“outside” was a fanciful world of enchantment. 
True, most of the men she knew had seen these 
things at some time in their lives, had even accepted 
them as a part of their normal existence, had ridden 
in railway trains, and great steamboats, and even 
in automobiles, but that was before they had come 
into the Arctic. 

Often she had wondered as she talked with these 
men why they had deliberately left all these things 
behind them and of their own choice had come into 
the land of the strong cold, the winter darkness, and 
the midnight summer sun. She knew that the an¬ 
swer was “gold.” But what was there about gold 
that made it worth the sacrifice. The money of the 
“outside”—the money made of paper was just as 
good as gold—was much better than gold, for could 
not one carry many thousands of dollars’ worth of it 
in a very small flat wallet? Why then did they 
want gold ? And why was there no gold in the land 
that had everything else? For years she had pon¬ 
dered these things, had read, and had studied the 
books and the magazines, but the answer had never 
seemed quite clear. And, at last, she was to see 


Skookum! 


197 


Nome! Rim Rock had told her there was a rail¬ 
road at Nome—not a very long railroad, he had 
admitted, but it w'as as wide as any railroad, and 
maybe she could ride on a train! She, who had 
never seen any camp bigger than Dawson! And 
had never expected to see any. That was the rosy 
dream she had dreamed—and now—it was gone! 
She would never see Nome. Not for her was the 
luxury of the smooth white bath tub with the warm 
water that poured in at the touch of her hand, not 
for her to ride on a railroad train, not for her eyes 
were the glitter of the diamonds and the jewelry 
in the windows. Oh, well—ice glittered, as bril¬ 
liantly as diamonds, Rim Rock had said. And one 
could ride on a dog sled, and one could bathe in the 
empty petrol tins, and could warm the water on the 
stove. It did not really matter—only— At this 
point, despite herself, the tears would start from her 
eyes, and she would hurriedly brush them away and 
call herself a fool. 

On the morning of the fifteenth day after the 
disappearance of Skookum, the girl stepped from 
the cabin with her bag of rice and tallow balls and 
walking to the dog corrals, began to toss the balls 
over the fence to the waiting dogs. Suddenly she 
heard a sound behind her, and the next instant two 
great paws reared high, she pitched forward into 
the snow, and the next moment was aware that a 
great tawny shape stood over her, and that a soft 
red tongue was gently caressing her cheek. 


North 


198 • 

“Skookum! Skookum!” she cried, the word end¬ 
ing in an hysterical scream that brought Old Man 
Gordon wide-eyed from the creek bed with his ax 
gripped in his two hands. The next moment the girl 
was sobbing with her arms about the great dog’s 
neck and her face buried in the thick hair of his 
shoulder. 

“Is Enright here? Who brought him, lass?” 

For answer the girl held up the four-inch length 
of chain that dangled from the collar: “He broke 
away!” she cried, “He couldn’t hold him—couldn’t 
keep him from me! And look 1 Look at the scars 
on his nose, and that split in his ear! He’s had him 
muzzled, and then the other dogs fought him when 
he was helpless!” 

“He’s yanked him around wi’ a twitch!” ex¬ 
claimed the old man, indignantly, “I’ve seen Injuns 
do it.” 

“And he’s starved him, too. See how thin he is. 
But he’s all right! He’s the same old Skookum, and 
it won’t take long to get him into shape again. And, 
oh, dad, now we can go to Nome!” 

Early in February, Lou Gordon made a flying 
trip to Nolan. There she found Rim Rock and 
Johnny Atline who were waiting for Enright to re¬ 
turn, and break the news to the girl that the search 
had been fruitless. All Nolan crowded about her 
as she halted her dogs before the roadhouse, and 
all Nolan listened to the story of Skookum’s return, 
and rejoiced in the girl’s good fortune. 


Skookum! 


199 


‘‘And, now, we are going to Nome,*’ she con¬ 
cluded, “and try for the Alaska Sweepstakes. We’ll 
start on the eighteenth, and that will give us plenty 
of time to get there by the first of April.” 

“An’ I want five hundred dollars’ worth of the best 
odds you kin git me, that you’ll win!” cried Atline, 
“I’ll give you the dust soon as Clem weighs it out.” 

“Me, too,” said Rim Rock, “But, say. Miss Lou, 
ain’t they no way you kin figger to drive them dogs 
yerself ?” 

The girl laughed: “Yes, Rim Rock,” she an¬ 
swered, “I will drive them myself. I don’t know 
how I’ll work it, but I’ll manage it, somehow. Poor 
dad! He nearly lost us the other race, and I don’t 
intend to take any chances with this one.” 

“Do you know how come Dalzene to pass him, 
Chris’mus?” asked Bill Britton. 

“No, dad never said much about the race. I’ve 
asked him, and all he would say was that Dalzene 
passed him at the turn, and that he couldn’t get 
Skookum to take the lead again.” 

“Well, you know, I was up to the turn to see 
that all teams went the hull route, an’ yer dad came 
in and pulled up to rest his dogs. Said you made 
him promise to rest ’em fer ten minutes. Well, the 
ten minutes was up, an’ the old man, he jumps onto 
the sled and yells at the dogs, an’ cracks his whip 
right between the lead dog’s ears, an’ the next 
minute the team was all fightin’ an’ in the doggon- 
dest mixup you ever seen. It tuk us an hour to git 


200 


North 


'em strung out and started agin, an’ meanwhile Dal- 
zene had passed an’ gone.” 

“I knew it!” laughed the girl, “I knew that whip 
would get him into trouble. I tried to make him 
leave it behind, but he wouldn’t listen to me. I 
broke those dogs, and I rarely use the whip.” 

you’re goin’ to drive the dogs, I’ll take a 
thousand dollars’ worth of what ever you kin git,” 
broke in Wilcox. Other sacks were produced, and 
until nearly every man in the camp had expressed 
his eagerness to bet anywhere from three hundred 
to a thousand dollars on Lou Gordon’s dogs. 

“Guess they’ll know us Koyukukers is willin’ to 
back Koyukuk dogs!” exclaimed Wilcox, as he ac¬ 
companied the men to the saloon to weigh out the 
dust. 

“Too bad Enright ain’t here,” opined Atline, 
“He’d sure like to be in on this.” 

“I’m puttin’ him in fer a thousand,” said Wilcox, 
“He’d go that much, an’ it ain’t right he should git 
left out. But, say, this here ain’t never goin’ to 
do!” he cried, eyeing the sacks of dust that littered 
the bar, “Them folks has got a long trail ahead, an’ 
if they’ve got to pack all this dust, they won’t have 
no room fer grub an’ dog feed.” Producin’ pencil 
and paper, he listed the bets and added the total. 
“Thirteen thousand, five hundred dollars! Let’s 
see, that’s more’n fifty pound of dust!” 

“Use Dalzene’s bills,” suggested Atline, “He sure 
left enough of ’em around here. You must have a 


Skookum! 


201 


bunch of ’em, Clem, an’ Crim’s got some, an’ we’ll 
hit out an’ locate the rest. They’re jest as good 
an’ a heap easier to pack.” 

“Now, you’ve got it!” cried Wilcox, “I paid off 
them bets an’ I recollect that about nine or ten 
thousand of his money was paper. You all skittle 
around an’ collect it together, an’ we won’t have to 
send down much dust.” 

“Lord!” grinned Atline, “If she wins that race, 
with the odds say at five or ten to one agin her, 
she’ll have to hire a elephant to pack the dust back.” 

“Elephants is sacred at Nome,” reminded Rim 
Rock, “But they’s banks there. She kin bring it 
back in paper.” 

“An’ they’ll be paper on the Koyukuk,” grinned 
Atline, “For the next fifty years, where they never 
was no paper saw till Dalzene sprinkled his’n 
around. First thing we know we’ll be plumb civil¬ 
ized!” 


CHAPTER XVIII 
ON THE LONG SNOW TRAIL 

Immediately upon returning to the cabin on 
Myrtle, Lou Gordon began to put the finishing 
touches on the training of two handsome young 
huskies which she intended to add to her team for 
the big race. Great strong dogs they were, half 
brothers to Skookum, and they threw themselves 
into the work with a will. Each day found the girl 
upon the trail with her dogs, now urging them 
through loose snow, now on the hard-packed sur¬ 
face of the creek, lying flat on the sled fairly “burn¬ 
ing the snow’' as she timed off the passing miles, 
and again, accustoming them to eat rice balls and 
handfuls of meal in the harness, with only a few 
minutes of rest. 

The day of departure arrived. She had a race 
team of twelve dogs now, and her father expressed 
surprise as she proceeded to harness six of these 
dogs, with six others of only ordinary ability. 

“What ye doin’ wi’ them dogs?” he asked. “Ye 
surely ain’t figurin’ on racin’ them!” 

“No, but I’m taking them with me just the same,” 
answered the girl. “It’s their business to work every 


202 


On the Long Snow Trail 203 

day till we hit Nome, and that will let the race dogs 
have every other day off. I’ll only use half the race 
dogs each day and let the other half run free.” 

‘‘Losh, lass! Wi’ a twelve dog outfit, an’ forty 
days fer six hundred miles, you wouldn’t be wearin’ 
out ye’re dogs none. An’ how about feedin’ eigh¬ 
teen dogs on the trail? Ye can’t load grub an’ out¬ 
fit, besides feed fer eighteen days fer six hundred 
miles on any sled.” 

“I don’t have to, there won’t be any trouble get¬ 
ting dog feed on the trail. There are Eskimos all 
along the Alatna and the Kobuk, and some white 
men.” 

‘‘Too many dogs, far too many dogs, lass. Ye 
better leave them trail dogs here wi’ the Siwash boy 
that’s goin’ to look after the bitches an’ puppies. 
An’ ye better let me do most of the drivin’ an’ the 
handlin’ of ’em on the trail, so they’ll be more used 
to me. I’ll take holt of Skookum an’ learn him that 
a crack of the whip don’t mean the signal to fight. 
Because when I drive that big race I don’t want 
any foolishness about it. The stakes are too high.” 

“I think, dad, that I’ll drive this race myself,” 
answered the girl, as they made fast the lashings of 
the sled. 

“Tush, tush!” exclaimed the man, “What are ye’ 
sayin’ ? Why, if I wouldn’t let yer drive a fifty mile 
race, how come ye to be thinkin’ I’d let ye drive a 
four hundred mile race, that takes several days of 
the hardest kind of trailin’. If a fifty mile race is 


204 


North 


a man’s job, a four hundred mile race is a man’s 
job—an’ a gude man! Think no more about it, 
lass. I won the other race—an’ a mighty close one 
it was, as ye’ll admit. An’ I’ll win this one.” 

It was upon the girl’s tongue to retort that had 
she been driving the race would not have been close, 
but she answered nothing. Nevertheless, she had 
no intention of allowing the old man to drive. She 
knew that by no possibility could he be argued out 
of his determination. But she, herself, would drive 
that race, and she had nearly two months in which to 
lay her plans. In Lou Gordon’s philosophy there 
was no use in crossing a bridge till you got to it, 
and two months is a long time in which to plan. 
So she smiled when the old man repeated his offer to 
handle the dogs. 

“Oh, I love to drive them,” she said, “They’re 
used to you, now. It was only at first—before the 
other race that there was any danger of their not 
working for you. Come on, let’s go!” And, with 
a few words of parting instruction to the Indian 
boy, she swung the team down the creek, and with 
the old man at the handle bars, they struck out on 
the long snow trail. 

The first leg of the journey down the Koyukuk 
was uneventful enough with stops at the roadhouse, 
at Betties, and at Alakakat Mission. Upon the 
Alatna the trail of the returning Kobuks was not 
deeply snowed under and afforded a good footing. 

They were in the Eskimo country now, for the 


On the Long Snow Trail 205 

«» 

Koyukuk River forms the dividing line between 
Indian and Eskimo hunting grounds. The Alatna 
and Upper Kobuk Eskimos, while as typically Eski¬ 
mos as their brothers of the sea coast, have many of 
them never seen salt water. Nevertheless, they are as 
truly maritime in their habits as though they dwelt 
upon the treeless tundras of the coast. Living in 
a country that is replete with caribou, ptarmagan, 
and rabbits, they rarely eat game, contenting them¬ 
selves with fish which they take in vast quantities 
from the rivers and inland lakes, and with seal oil 
that is carried up river and traded by the coastal 
Eskimos. It is the same with their housing. Liv¬ 
ing as they do where timber for cabins is plentiful, 
they build no cabins, but live in igloos built half 
underground and their clothing consists of seal¬ 
skin, also an article of trade, instead of caribou 
skin which abounds within their own territory. 

For two days the trail held to the river. Each 
night they pitched their tent close beside an igloo, 
Lou after one glance into the reeking interior of the 
first of these huts, declining as gracefully as possi¬ 
ble, the urgent invitations of the occupants to share 
their hospitality. On the high plateau of the Alatna- 
Kobuk portage they experienced the first difficulty 
in following the trail. Rim Rock’s map showed 
that it held straight west for nearly fifty miles, but 
a new fall of snow had obliterated every vestige 
of trail. The timber on the plateau was exceeding 
sparse and consisted of straggling patches of 


206 


North 


stunted spruce widely separated by level stretches of 
snow. One not versed in Arctic winter trailing 
would think that the exact location of the trail under 
such circumstances would be a matter of small mo¬ 
ment, but the sourdough who does the winter travel¬ 
ing knows differently. Once off the trail, he must 
fight the deep snows of all the winter which means 
intolerably slow travel with no footing for the dogs. 
No matter how ’ deeply buried under new snow, 
where the old trail is there will be found a hard bot¬ 
tom which furnishes the footing that is necessary 
for the dogs to exert any traction. And no amount 
of trail breaking without the old trail underneath 
will afford anything like a bottom. 

The first few miles of the long portage were 
reasonably easy, for the trail was blazed on the 
trunks of a straggling stand of spruce. When the 
spruce gave place to open country the girl cut a 
slender sapling, sharpened it, and walking ahead of 
the dogs, prodded the point down through the foot 
and a half of new snow, locating the trail by the 
increased resistance of the packed snow. They took 
turns trail breaking, which of itself is no light job 
in loose snow. The broad snowshoe is useless for 
this work so one. must resort to the narrow trail shoe 
that packs down the snow rather than overrides it. 
The trail breaker must walk ahead locating the trail 
as he goes, then return to the team, and walk ahead, 
again, thus traversing every foot of the distance 
three times, while his companion follows at the 


On the Long Snow Trail 207 

handle bars. Ten to fifteen miles of this is a big 
day’s work, and it took the two four days to make 
the fifty miles, including one-half day spent resting 
on the head waters of Hog River. 

The evening of the fourth day found them at the 
cabin on Lake Noyutak that Rim Rock had marked 
on his map. All Alaska even to the remotest out- 
land, is dotted with these decaying cabins, mute 
monuments to dashed hopes. Some lone prospector 
forces his way far beyond the outposts, builds his 
cabin, works like a slave in the muck for a year— 
two years, swallows his disappointment and moves 
on to build another cabin until at last the North 
claims him—drains him dry of everything but his 
vision of gold—starves him, freezes him, and when 
at last he falls a mottled, marbled thing into the 
snow, she feeds her wolves with his bones. Years 
later some traveler of the wastes, fighting the strong 
cold and the shrieking wind, stumbles upon the 
cabin, and in the blessed life-giving warmth of its 
shelter, gives fulsome thanks to its builder—but the 
builder never knows. 

Another day’s trail breaking took them well onto 
the Kobuk, and early the following morning a small 
party of Eskimos mushing up-river gave them the 
benefit of a trail. The trail shoes were returned to 
the sled, and that day they made thirty miles. The 
third night on the Kobuk brought them to another 
cabin which they shared with two Eskimo boys who 
were journeying up river with sealskins to trade. 


208 


North 


The sun, so long in seclusion, shone every day, and 
travel on the good trail of the river ice became a 
pleasure rather than a hardship. At Shungnak they 
replenished their supplies and a week later rested 
for two days at Squirrel River native village. 

They were now well into the coastal country, and 
the trail ceased to be a matter of supreme importance 
for the reason that the hard, wind-packed snow was 
crusted to a degree that gave good footing anywhere 
upon its surface. 

At the delta of the Kobuk they bore southward, 
crossed Hotham Inlet, and following the Choris 
Peninsula to its southmost extremity, crossed the 
wind-swept ice of Eschscholtz Bay and camped that 
night at Kiwalik. The next day they made Candle, 
and it was there that Old Man Gordon found the 
vindication of his much scoffed theory. At Candle, 
they were thawing with steam I “I told ’em! I told 
’em it would come!” cried the old man excitedly, as 
he fairly dragged the girl to the Candle Creek work¬ 
ings. ‘T told ’em in Dawson before the big rush, 
an’ I be’n tellin’ ’em on the Koyukuk ever since! 
An’ they wouldn’t believe me I An’ now ye can see 
fer yerselfI” 

‘‘But, they burn coal here, dad,” objected the 
girl. 

“Aye, they burn coal because they ain’t got the 
wood! An’ if it’s coal ye need, which it ain’t, there’s 
plenty coal on the Koyukuk, an’ better coal than 
this ice-clogged stuff they’re shovelin’ under their 


On the Long Snow Trail 209 

b’ilers, here.” For two whole days the girl was 
forced to remain in Candle while the old man 
haunted the workings, asking innumerable ques¬ 
tions, and boasting to anyone who would listen that 
he, himself, was the father of “Filer thawin’.” 

When at last Lou succeeded in persuading him 
to resume the journey, it was to find that the dog 
race had been entirely supplanted in his mind by 
the astounding fact that he had actually seen frozen 
gravel thawed with steam. “An’ they tell me they’re 
usin’ b’ilers at Nome, an’ pilin’ up dumps as big as 
mountains!” he burst forth as he paused on top of 
a great mountainous ridge, that overlooked Candle, 
“I’ll find out all about it, an’ when we go back I’ll 
fill the valley of Myrtle from rim to rim, an’ I’ll 
reckon’ my gold by the pound!” 

Lou answered nothing as the outfit fairly flew 
over the hard trail but as she ran beside the dogs, 
she smiled. Here, possibly was the solution of her 
difficulty. She would encourage the old man to de¬ 
vote all his time to the study of boilers on the chance 
that he would entirely forget the dog race. Foolish 
hope, as she was soon to realize. Because, for weeks 
before the great event Nome talks nothing but dogs, 
and the Alaska Sweepstakes. 

The going on the wind-packed snow of the Se¬ 
ward Peninsula was the fastest of the entire trip. 
The fastest, and by far the most trying and dis¬ 
agreeable, for the wind never for a moment ceased 
to harness and to buffet them. Nowhere in the 


14 


210 


North 


known world does the wind persist with such 
malevolent, devilish force as upon the treeless waste 
of ridges and flats that lie between Nome and Can¬ 
dle. Forty, sixty, eighty, a hundred miles an hour it 
roars down upon the struggling traveler, seemingly 
endowed with intelligence and a certain devilish in¬ 
genuity for the annihilation of his outfit. To pitch 
a tent, or indeed to erect a shelter of any kind is an 
absolute impossibility. And there are times when 
the whole outfit is pushed, skidding and sliding off 
the trail to bring up with a crash against the first 
natural obstruction. Luckily, during the three days 
traverse of the one hundred and thirty miles to 
Council, the Gordons had the wind at their backs, 
so that on numerous stretches both father and 
daughter rode the sled with the dogs tearing along 
at full speed to keep from being run down. At 
Council Lou again had hard work to persuade her 
father to push on, for here, as at Candle, they were 
thawing with steam. After one day’s rest, which 
was no rest at all for Old Man Gordon, who visited 
every steam boiler within five miles of town, they 
pulled out early in the morning on the last lap of 
their long journey. “Only ninety miles to Nome!” 
cried the girl, as they flew over the crusted snow. 
“Soloman tonight, and tomorrow night—Nome!” 

“Aye,” answered the old man, “But ’twill be too 
late to see the big dumps. They tell me they’re 
several miles out. I’ll have to wait till next day to 
go out there.” 


2II 


On the Long Snow Trail 

At Topkok the two got their first view of the vast 
Pacific, its deep blue waves tossing their white 
manes high in the everlasting wind. The dogs were 
halted, and for a long time both stared in awed 
silence upon the mighty vastness of the scene. The 
dazzling whiteness of the snow in the bright sun¬ 
shine, the cold green glitter of the great ice crags 
that reared their heads along the coast, and the 
warm blue of the ocean beyond held them in rapt 
admiration until the stinging wind tugging at parka 
hoods, and forcing its cold breath beneath their 
clothing, caused them to push on. 

The wind was at their side now, and the difficul¬ 
ties of the trail were innumerable, the heavily loaded 
sled turning over every few miles, or crashing side- 
wise into the telephone poles that lined the trail. 

The following day the wind blew even harder and 
it was not until long after dark that the weary travel¬ 
ers pulled into Nome, where too tired to even at¬ 
tempt the exploration of her brilliantly lighted 
wonder city, Lou Gordon gave her dogs into charge 
of the hotel dog keeper, and retired to her room 
where a few moments later she crept between the 
first white sheets she had ever seen, and sank into 
a deep and dreamless sleep. 




CHAPTER XIX 

ON DEATH VALLEY HILL 

The journey to Nome had consumed but thirty- 
three of the allotted forty days, and during the week 
following her arrival, Lou Gordon rested from the 
long snow-trail. For a while each morning she 
worked with her dogs, getting them into condition, 
putting the finishing touches on them for the big 
race that was scheduled to start at nine o’clock on the 
morning of the thirteenth of April, The heavy trail- 
sled had been replaced by a strong, light affair, built 
for speed, yet braced throughout against possibility 
of damage upon the hard, wind-swept trail. 

During this first week in Nome, the girl was left 
very much to'herself, her father spending the entire 
day, and sometimes half the night, among the dumps 
and the boilers of the beach line diggings. 

One morning, as she paused on the trail to make 
some slight adjustment of harness, a team of 
eighteen superb dogs halted beside her and a cheery 
voice greeted her from the depths of a close-drawn 
parka hood. “Need any help?” 

“No, thank you,” answered the girl, her eyes 
drinking in every detail of the eighteen great 
animals, “What wonderful dogs!” 


212 


213 


On Death Valley Hill 

The man laughed; ‘‘They sure are. But thaf s no 
scrub team you’re drivin’. Coin’ to enter ’em?” 

“Yes,” the girl smiled, “And I’m going to win, 
too!” 

“That’s the talk! Johnson’s my name—John 
Johnson.” 

“Oh, I’ve heard of you!” exclaimed Lou, “And 
I’ve heard of your team. Lots of people have picked 
you to win the Sweepstakes—you or Scotty Allen, 
or Fred Ayer.” Again she smiled: “But, that’s 
because they don’t know my dogs.” 

“I guess they don’t, all right. I don’t know ’em, 
an’ I thought I knew every race team in this part of 
the country. Where you from?” 

“From the Koyukuk. I am Lou Gordon.” 

“The Koyukuk!” exclaimed Johnson. “I didn’t 
know they bred good dogs over there. Did you 
come across from the Yukon?” 

“No, we came by the Kobuk.” 

“You’re some sourdough!” exclaimed Johnson, 
“To come that way. But all the Koyukukers are, 
as far as that goes. It must be a God-forsaken 
country up there.” 

“It’s the best country there is!” interrupted the 
girl, quickly. 

“That’s right! Say, I don’t mind tellin’ you that 
if I don’t win the big race myself I’d rather lose it 
to you than any one else. I like the way you talk. 
Are you goin’ to drive ’em yourself?” 

A slight frown puckered the girl’s forehead: “I 





214 


North 


want to 3rive tRem,” she confided, '^But my dad 
thinks it is no job for a girl. He can’t see that I’ve 
actually grown up. And, really, I do handle them 
lots better than he does.” 

'I’ll bet you do! But, say—^he’s dead right—about 
it not bein’ a girl’s job! Believe me, Miss Gordon, 
I know! She’s some trail! Especially if there’s a 
blizzard on.” 

"Do you know the trail?” 

"I sure do.” 

“Will you draw a map for me. I want to take 
them over the whole course before the race.” 

“Sure, I’ll map it for you. Where you stoppin’ ?” 

The girl gave him the name of her hotel, and he 
continued: “If you say so I’ll come over there this 
afternoon an’ then you can see me make the map, 
an’ it will give me a chance to tell you about the 
trail. There’s some mean places an’ it helps a whole 
lot to know about ’em.” 

“Oh, will you? Are you sure you are willing to 
do that—when it might be the means of my winning 
the race?” 

Johnson laughed: “If them dogs of mine can’t 
win because they can out-run, an’ out-trail yours, 
you’re welcome to win. I don’t want no advantage. 
An’ let me tell you that you’re doin’ a good thing by 
takin’ ’em over the trail. There’s more to that 
than some folks savvies. There’ll be a lot of ’em 
entered this year. An’ outside of three or four of 
us, they ain’t none of ’em be’n over the trail. Here 


215 


On Death Valley Hill 

comes Scotty Allen now!” he exclaimed, as they 
watched the approach of a big team of pure mala- 
mutes. “Him an’ a woman down in California is 
pardners in that team—an’ they’re good dogs, too.” 

As the driver drew up and halted Johnson hailed 
him. “Come here, Scotty, an’ meet Miss Lou Gor¬ 
don from over on the Koyukuk, an’ at the same 
time take a squint at some good dogs. Look at that 
lead dog! Some animal! I was just tellin’ Miss 
Gordon that if I don’t win I’d rather she would than 
you, or Ayer, or Sapala, or Eskimo John. The rest 
ain’t got no show, anyhow.” 

Allen acknowledged the introduction. “I’m sure 
glad to meet you. Miss Gordon. So you’ve come 
over to give us a run for our money, eh ? That’s the 
stuff! But don’t you believe for a minute that John 
here, an’ that pack of wolves he’s drivin’ is goin’ to 
cut any real figure in the big race. Here’s the team 
you’ve got to figure on, right here. If you beat out 
these malamutes, you’ve won the race!” 

“Hear him rave!” laughed Johnson, “Why, Miss 
Gordon, them malamutes will be lucky if they don’t 
set down an’ freeze in before they hit Gold Run. I 
figure on packin’ extra grub for Scotty, so he can 
make it in a-foot.” And so it went, the two great 
dog-mushers exchanging good-natured banter, and 
the girl enjoying it hugely. 

“Anyway, I hope the best team will win!” she 
exclaimed, when they had exhausted their stock of 
ready repartee. 


2I6 


North 


said it !^^ seconded Allen. 

“You bet!” exclaimed Johnson. ''I hope we don’t 
have to run in the snow. It’s a hard grind in clear 
weather, but with a blizzard on, it’s fierce.” 

“You don’t figure on drivin’ the race, yourself!” 
exclaimed Allen. 

“If I don’t drive it, one of you will win,” laughed 
the girl. “My dad wants to drive, but he can’t win.” 

“Just the same, I hope he don’t let you tackle it,” 
said Allen, seriously, “It ain’t no woman’s race— 
the Sweepstakes ain’t.” 

“It will be a woman’s race this year!” smiled the 
girl. “You’ll see!” and with the good-natured 
laughter of the men ringing in her ears, she headed 
the dogs for town. 

Two days later she took the trail for Candle with 
Johnson’s map stowed safely in her pocket. Old 
Man Gordon had grudgingly given his consent to the 
trip, although insisting that it was all foolishness, 
and again warning her that she most emphatically 
was not going to drive the race. Careful to take 
no issue with him on that point, she reiterated her 
contention that the dogs, especially Skookum, would 
be able to clip hours from the time if they knew the 
trail, and so won the old man’s grudging consent. 

It was with growing apprehension that the girl 
swung the dogs onto the trail. For she realized that 
with all Nome talking dog race, her father could not 
forget the big event even though there had been ten 
times as many boilers to inspect. With the race still 


217 


On Death Valley Hill 

more than two weeks off, everyone was thinking 
dogs, and talking dogs—and nothing else. And as 
the time approached the girl racked her brains for 
some maneuver that would allow her to drive the 
great race. 

In vain she racked her brain for a solution of her 
problem as her sled slipped smoothly over the hard 
trail. “I’ll just have to hire someone to kidnap 
him,” she muttered, “And then he’ll never forgive 
me. I don’t see why he can’t listen to reason!” 

Just before she drew into Soloman, an event 
happened that drove all thought of her father out of 
her head and gave her fresh cause for worry. A dog 
team came into view and as it approached, the 
actions of Skookum caused the girl to stare at him in 
amazement. The great leader had stopped dead in 
his tracks, and stood, half crouched, with muscles 
tensed, and the hair of his back standing bristlingly 
erect. From his throat issued a low, menacing 
growl, and stepping quickly to his side the girl saw 
that his amber eyes were fixed upon the driver of 
the approaching team. Suddenly the team halted 
and the girl found herself staring into the face of 
Jake Dalzene! 

Only for a moment the man stood facing her in 
the trail. But in that moment his face registered 
intense surprise, followed instantly by an abysmal 
fear, as his glance centered on the menacing figure 
of Skookum. Then, swiftly he swung his dogs 
clear of the trail, and urging them on gave wide 


2I8 


North 


margin on the frozen crust. As he passed his eyes 
met the girl’s in a gleam of sullen hate. The next 
moment he was gone, and Lou started her own dogs 
and continued on to Soloman. 

"'What in the world is he doing here?” she won¬ 
dered, "‘Surely he is not going to enter his dogs in 
the Sweepstakes! Oh, why couldn’t he have stayed 
on the Yukon? Why did he come to Nome? He’ll 
never try to steal Skookum again. He’s deathly 
afraid of him, and he has a right to be. I never 
saw Skookum act that way before! Why, he would 
have eaten him up! But, he might try to kill Skoo¬ 
kum! I wish Pete Enright were here. He would 
keep an eye on Dalzene for me. As long as Dalzene 
is in Nome I’ll worry every minute that my dogs are 
out of my sight. I know he’s up to some deviltry. I 
could see it in his eyes. Maybe it’s just hooch run¬ 
ning,” she reasoned, when the first shock of the 
meeting had worn off. “Because he evidently didn’t 
expect to see me here. His face showed surprise 
until he saw Skookum. Then fear. Oh, why didn’t 
you chew him up, Skookum?” she cried aloud, but 
for answer the big dog increased his pace, and ran 
on. 

The girl spent the night at Topkok, fifty miles 
from Nome, and got away early the following morn¬ 
ing with Telephone Creek, seventy-two miles further 
on, as her destination. It was on this stretch of 
wind-beaten trail that for the first time she really 
let the dogs go. Riding the sled for long stretches 


219 


On Death VaUey Hill 

she urged them to their utmost, and her heart thrilled 
as the great brutes responded with all that was in 
them and the sled fairly flew over the snow. Twice 
that day she stopped and fed a handful of meal to 
each dog—an extra trail ration to balance the extra 
exertion, and to hearten them for the long pull. She 
passed Boston Roadhouse shortly after noon, and 
arrived at Telephone Creek at four o’clock, an hour 
and a lialf ahead of her schedule. In the morning 
she headed for Candle, eighty-four miles away, 
which is the turning point of the race. It was par¬ 
ticularly of this stretch that Johnson had warned 
her. Here one must cross the wind swept reach of 
Death Valley, and while in clear weather the only 
serious danger is a wind-smashed sled, it is a real 
menace should the unfortunate musher lose the trail 
in a thick snow-fog or a driving blizzard, for Death 
Valley Hill is cut by sheer bluffs and cut-banks over 
which an outfit might easily plunge to destruction. 

On the summit of Death Valley Hill she halted 
and fed the dogs the while she took careful note of 
the lay of the land. So engrossed was she that a 
dog outfit from the north was almost upon her before 
she noticed it. A moment later it drew up beside 
hers. The driver’s bared hand fumbled for a mo¬ 
ment with his snow goggles, and in that moment the 
girl noted that the goggles were of the Eskimo type, 
consisting merely of two bits of hollowed wood 
provided with slits. The goggles came off, and she 
found herself looking into a pair of grey-blue eyes 


220 


North 


set deeply in a face that was wind-tanned to the 
color of a native. Then she was aware that the 
eyes were smiling, and that a fan-shaped spread of 
tiny wrinkles radiated from their corners. The lips 
were smiling, too, as they greeted her in jargon: 

'‘Klahowyam!” 

'‘Klahowya six!” smiled the girl, gazing frankly 
into the blue-grey eyes. Somehow those eyes 
seemed to fascinate her. They looked young, and 
yet—no, not young. There was a hint of deep 
wisdom in their depths, but the face was not the face 
of an old man. White even teeth showed between 
the smiling lips, and every movement of the well 
poised body bespoke health, and strength, and vigor. 
He was speaking: 

“Great dogs you’ve got there!” Before she could 
warn him, he had stepped swiftly to Skookum’s 
side, and his bared hand was laid upon the big 
leader’s head. 

“Oh, look out! Please 1” he glanced up at the cry, 
and again his lips smiled, as he noted the look of 
utter amazement that showed in the girl’s face as 
she stared at her great lead dog whose amber eyes 
were gazing mildly into the man’s face. “Be careful! 
Skookum don’t like strangers. No one has ever 
touched his head before—not even dad!” 

“Well, then. I’m not a stranger—and I’m glad. 
Skookum and I understand each other, don’t we 
Skookum ?” The hand pulled playfully at the great 
dog’s ear. 


221 


On Death Valley Hill 

*‘But—I don’t understand!” cried the girl, '‘He 
couldn’t have known you I I raised him, myself, and 
he’s never been away from me, except-” 

‘‘Except when?” asked the man, so quickly that 
the girl wondered. 

She was about to reply, when he forestalled her: 
“Except about two months or so ago,” he said, 
“And then, he wasn’t away from you for very 
long.” 

“Why—how do you know? Do you know about 
Dalzene ?” 

The man laughed: “Never heard of him,” he 
answered. 

“Then, how do you know?” 

The stranger’s fingers were caressing the scars 
of the twitch that still showed on the great dog’s 
jaws. “I know because these scars are only about 
two or three months old. And I know that you 
never jerked him around with a twitch.” 

“IJalzene stole him. He’s a horrible old hooch 
runner, and I won a race from him, or rather dad 
did, over on the Koyukuk, and then he stole him 
when he found I wouldn’t sell him. But Skookum 
broke his chain and came home.” 

“And probably ate the hooch runner, before he 
did it,” mused the man, staring into the amber eyes. 
“I know a little bit about dogs and I wouldn’t care to 
have this particular specimen for an enemy.” 

“No, he didn’t,” answered the girl quickly. “I— 
I almost wish he had!” 



222 


North 


The man laughed: ‘T don’t blame you,” he 
answered. ‘Tf Skookum was my dog, and some¬ 
body stole him, I think I would wish the same thing 
—only I think I would be inclined to save the dog 
the trouble.” 

eating him?” exclaimed the girl, and they 
both laughed aloud. 

“You live on the Koyukuk?” 

“Yes, on Myrtle Creek.” 

“Out of Coldfoot?” 

“Yes, only there is no Coldfoot, now. They’ve 
all pulled out for Nolan—except dad and me.” 

“So, Coldfoot’s dead, eh? I kind of thought the 
gravel was too spotted to last.” 

“You have been there?” 

“Quite a while ago. I pulled out before there was 
any Coldfoot, I was back there once since and 
bought an outfit of grub from Crim. I pulled north 
from there.” 

“North!” exclaimed the girl, “To Nolan, or 
Wiseman?” 

“North of everywhere,” smiled the man. “Way 
north. North of the Endicott Range. This is my 
first trip out in four years. And my second trip out 
in eight.” 

“Four years!” exclaimed the girl, “And no camps 
up there?” 

“No camps. I’ve sent Eskimos to Shungnak 
sometimes for supplies. This spring I thought I’d 
come out myself. I’m going to Nome to take in the 


223 


On Death Valley Hill 

sights, and the big race. What’s the old world been 

doing in the last four years?” he asked. 

The girl smiled: “The Koyukuk has been flowing 
into the Yukon and Coldfoot has stampeded to 
Nolan,” she answered, “That is about all I know 
of the world. But, I have been to Nome.” 

“And not staying for the big race!” exclaimed the 
man. 

“Yes, I’m staying for the big race. I’m going to 
win it!” 

“You! You’re going to drive the Sweepstakes I” 

“Yes. I’m going to drive—and I’m going to wan, 
too.” 

The man’s eyes studied the dogs, one by one. 
After several minutes he looked up. “You might 
do it,” he said. “There isn’t a scrub in the outfit. 
They’ve got the chests, and the backs, and the legs, 
and they’re in condition.” 

“I’ve got to win I” exclaimed the girl. “If I don’t 
win we’ll be broke. This trip will take all we’ve 
got. Hotels are expensive, and I’ve just got to 
win. It will break dad’s heart if he can’t get his 
boiler.” 

“Boiler—on the Koyukuk? What does he want 
of a boiler up there?” 

“Oh, he thinks that if he can thaw out the muck 
with steam, his everlasting fortune will be made. 
It’s the only thing he can talk about, or think about. 
‘B’iler Gordon,” they call him on the Koyukuk.” 

“Gordon,” repeated the man, in an even voice. 


224 North 

“There was a Gordon down Dawson way, before the 
big stampede.” 

“That was dad. His claim petered out, and we 
went up on the Koyukuk.” 

The man glanced at his watch. “We may as well 
eat,” he said. “It’s nearly time anyway, and it 
would be foolish for us both to pull on for an hour 
and then eat alone, wouldn’t it?” 

“Of course it would!” agreed the girl, and as they 
ate she found herself telling this kindly stranger all 
about herself, her hopes and ambitions, and her 
fears. And she listened while he told of the unex¬ 
plored country along the Colville and its tributaries, 
and of how he believed himself upon the verge of a 
big strike. 

“But is it worth it?” she asked, “Is the gold worth 
it all? Is it worth enough when you get it to pay 
for all the years of cold, and darkness, and hard, 
hard work? Don’t you realize that up here we are 
missing it all?” 

“Missing it all?” asked the man, softly, “Missing 
all what?” 

“Why, missing everything—missing life!'* 

It seemed a long time before he answered: 
“Maybe we are,” he said, “Maybe we are missing— 
life. I’ll think about that—and if I find the answer. 
I’ll tell you. You are coming back to Nome, of 
course?” 

“Oh, yes. I’m just taking the dogs over the trail, 
so it won’t be all new to them when the race starts. 


225 


On Death Valley Hill 

rfl reach Candle to-night, and rest all day tomorrow. 
The return trip I will make in two days, Fm going 
to really drive coming back.” 

The man nodded: “That’s right. Make them do 
it. Force them and crowd them as if you were 
driving the race. They told me at Shungnak that 
the race starts the thirteenth, that will give them 
plenty of time to rest up in Nome, and it will show 
them what’s expected of them.” 

“You know dogs,” said the girl. 

“Yes,” he answered, “I know dogs. But, that is 
only half of it. Dogs know me. And that is the 
real secret of handling dogs. You wouldn’t be¬ 
lieve me if I told you that I could take those dogs of 
yours and handle them as well as you can yourself. 
Dogs know all about a man the moment they scent 
him. It’s a sense we don’t know anything about, 
but it’s there. They know a lot more about us than 
we know about them. A dog knows a vicious man 
the instant he scents him, he knows the good- 
natured, easy going man, that he can take advantage 
of, and he knows the man he can trust and respect. 
He will work his toe nails off for the right man— 
because he trusts him. For the others, he will do 
just as little as he can get by with. He will do just 
enough to keep from under the club of the vicious 
man, and he will shamelessly loaf for the good- 
natured man who pampers him.” 

The girl nodded: “I believe that. I believe every 
word of it. I have been handling dogs for several 


IS 


226 


North 


years, and I know ifs true. I should like to talk 
more about dogs,” she added, “but, really, I must go. 
I want to make Candle tonight.” 

“You’ll make it all right,” he answered. “Can I 
look you up in Nome?” 

“Oh, do!” cried the girl, “I’d love to have some¬ 
one to talk to—someone who knows dogs, and who 
knows the real North—^the country beyond the 
Yukon. Dad is so busy finding out about boilers 
that I hardly ever see him.” 

“I’ll be waiting for you day after tomorrow 
evening,” he promised. “You will be too tired to 
talk dogs or anything else, but I’ll be looking for 
you. I want to see how your team stands the trip.” 


CHAPTER XX 
MAN OF THE FAR NORTH 

History, local in character, unrecorded for the 
most part, but epic in virile intensity, makes with 
startling rapidity where men answer the call of raw 
gold. And it is history, not delicately graven by 
master hands of diplomacy; but rough hewn and 
slashed broad by self-centered men who let the chips 
fall where they may. The past is forgotten. The 
future is yet to come. But, there is gold in the 
gravel today! Raw gold! Yellow gold! Coarse 
gold! And dust! With no thought of future men 
will starve for it, will freeze for it, and for the 
chance to gouge it from the earth will undergo all 
hardship and privation known and unknown. With 
their eyes fixed on the golden sands of California, 
men gave no heed to the rich and fertile loam lands 
of the middle west as the wheels of their wagons 
rutted, and their feet trampled that golden store¬ 
house of the future. For there is gold in the gravel 
today! 

The grazing lands of Australia, with their golden 
future in cattle and sheep were worn bare by the 
trails of the stampeders. There is gold in the 
gravel today! 


227 


228 


North 


And the forest lands and the tillable lands of 
Oregon, and Washington, and British Columbia 
were passed with hardly a glance by the nondescript 
army that surged Northward to answer the call of 
gold. Timber and grain are of the future—but 
there is gold in the gravel today! 

And never did history make more rapidly than 
when that horde of chechakos swarmed over the 
Chilcoot and poured into the valley of the Yukon. 
Good men, and bad men, poor men, and rich—clean- 
lived, clean-muscled farmer boys aglow with the 
ruddy health of the outdoors, rubbing elbows with 
the pasty-skinned degenerates of the city's slums— 
all dumped together into a land of ice, and of snow, 
and of rugged mountains! Into a land that by no 
possibility of development could be made to supply 
the one tenth part of their sustenance! 

Rough hewn is the history of the Yukon. Its 
makers drowned in its waters, froze on its hillsides, 
and starved on its creeks; or miserably back-trailed 
to the place they came from! They paid with their 
lives for their ignorance; or crept cravenly back 
in defeat. Those were the incompetents. But, a 
few of the fit survived. Supermen, who lived on 
and thrived where human life was the only cheap 
thing in the whole lean land—beat the North, and 
gutted her creeks of their riches! 

So history made fast on the Yukon. Camps 
sprang up in a day, flourished for a month—and 
were forgotten. The hero of today supersedes the 


Man of the Far North 229 


hero of yesterday, and tomorrow will be unre¬ 
membered. The heroes were the men who found 
gold. Camps grew into towns, and towns into 
cities, and banks superseded the safes of the saloon 
keepers and the traders as repositories for the 
miner’s gold. 

And so it was that eight years after Burr Mac- 
Shane bid Camillo Bill good bye and headed North 
in the darkness, his name had been long forgotten, 
where once it had been the big name of all names. 
A dozen or more of the old timers would occasion¬ 
ally shake their heads in reminiscent regret that he 
had gone. Always they spoke of him in the past 
tense—all but Camillo Bill, who regularly deposited 
large sums in the bank to his credit. To the bank 
Burr MacShane was only a name—the name of its 
heaviest depositor. In answer to inquiry Camillo 
Bill had vouchsafed the information that Burr Mac¬ 
Shane was his partner. That he was on a prospect¬ 
ing expedition somewhere in the North. And, that 
when he got ready he would return. And with the 
passing of the years MacShane’s dust piled up its 
interest. 

But, of all this, MacShane himself, knew nothing. 
Far to the northward, in that land of winter dark¬ 
ness where the Colville River winds its unmapped 
way to the frozen sea. Burr MacShane played a lone 
hand. There was something on the Colville—some¬ 
thing big. Somewhere upon its upper reaches was 
a huge storehouse of gold—red gold. Gold that 


230 


North 


gripped him as no other gold had ever gripped him. 
It was like no other gold he had ever seen. Gold 
that stirred his imagination to its profoundest depths 
—wonderful—mysterious—red! 

Slowly and methodically he worked the bars of 
the lower river, panning the precious red particles 
from the muck. It did not run rich, a couple of 
dollars to the pan, hardly more. But what would 
it show deep down ? There was no timber. He 
could not burn in. The second winter he laboriously 
hauled wood from the foothills of the Endicotts a 
hundred and fifty miles, pulling the sled with his 
dogs! Six round trips he made—and burned to 
bed rock in a week I So he worked up river, south¬ 
ward. One by one he explored the tributaries. For 
four years he worked—living like an Eskimo— 
delving like a gnome. Then he made a hurried trip 
to Cold foot for supplies, and for another four years 
he buried himself in the North. 

During the long daylight of the short summers 
he explored the lower river, pan-washing the bars. 
And in the perpetual darkness of the long winters 
he would mush back to the foot hills and work the 
tributaries where some scraggy spruce timber fur¬ 
nished the necessary wood. 

And in the course of time he had learned a strange 
thing. The red gold of the lower river was top 
gold—new gold. It had not been washing long 
enough to have worked down even to the shal¬ 
low bed rock. The gold of the upper river and 



Man of the Far North 


231 


its tributaries was old gold, paler, and deeper 
down. 

Therefore, he reasoned that somewhere between 
the two places he would one day find the source of 
the red gold. Some convulsion of nature—an earth¬ 
quake, the fall of a cutbank, or an overhung spur 
of a mountain, had within a comparatively recent 
time, opened up this storehouse of red gold and the 
waters of the river were washing it down with the 
surface sand. 

On the trail of red gold MacShane forgot civiliza¬ 
tion. What was it he had told Camillo Bill—maybe 
a year from now I will be taking out a thousand 
dollars to the pan? More than a year had passed— 
many years. But the storehouse was there. What 
difference did it make? He would find it—some¬ 
time. And so with the utmost patience he rode his 
hunch—the hunch that had driven him into the 
North. Wandering Eskimos knew him and brought 
his supplies from Shungnak on the Kobuk, two 
hundred miles to the southward. 

Early in March of his eighth year on the Colville, 
he locate^ a spot on a tributary that flowed in from 
the westward, where indications showed that the 
course of the river had been changed by an enor¬ 
mous slide of rock. Powder! Powder, he must 
have to blast his way into the towering mass of 
stone. And, as he studied the mass, he knew that 
all the powder in the camps of the Koyukuk, and 
the Kobuk would not even scratch the mighty pile. 


232 


North 


Nome was his only hope—Nome, the city that had 
sprung up near the mouth of the Salmon River; 
where years before, he himself, had struck color in 
the beach sands, but decided it wasn’t pay. He had 
heard of Nome at Coldfoot, and of the fabulous 
wealth that those same beach sands were yielding— 
and he had grinned. For that was in the past. But, 
on the Colville, there is gold in the gravel today! 

“Guess ril just hit down there an’ have a look at 
this city that’s got rich off what I couldn’t find,” 
he said to himself that night in his igloo-like hut. 
“It’s a hunch. I feel it workin’. I’m right now 
knockin’ at the door of a big strike. ^Go to Nome,’ 
it says. That means get powder an’ blow this hill 
to hell.” For a long time he sat and stared at the 
red squares that glowed at the draft of his stove. 
“Maybe it means that I’m just naturally plumb 
homesick to talk to someone. It’s—why, hell! It’s 
four years since I’ve seen a white man, or spoke a 
white man’s word to anyone but myself an’ the 
dogs. An’ I ain’t seen a white woman in God knows 
when! I wonder if they’ve got regular saloons, 
with mahogany bars, an’ foot-rails, an’ dance halls. 
I wonder if they’ve got anyone there that can make 
the old piano talk like Horse Face Joe could? 
There’s one way to find out for sure,” he grinned, 
and put a huge batch of dog feed to cook. 

Morning found him on the trail. Four days later 
he pulled into Shungnak to find everyone in the 
isolated little mining camp talking dog race. 


Man of the Far North 233 


“Where is this race? An’ when is it cornin’ off?” 
asked MacShane. 

“Over to Nome. An’ she starts the thirteenth 
of April,” informed the saloon keeper, “How you 
bettin’? Me—I’m bettin’ even money John John¬ 
son’s team wins agin the field. Or, Pm bettin’ two- 
to-one on him to beat out any team you kin name.” 

“How many teams are racin’ ?” asked MacShane, 
indifferently. 

“I don’t know. Four or five—mebbe more. It 
don’t make no difference. They can’t none of ’em 
beat Johnson’s wolves.” 

“I’ll take a thousand that this Johnson’s team 
don’t win,” said MacShane, tossing a sack onto the 
bar. “I don’t know anything about Johnson or his 
team, either. But I’m headin’ for Nome, an’ I 
guess I’ll just hang around and see the race. It’ll 
be more interestin’ if I’ve got somethin’ up on it.” 

“Take another thousan’ if you want it,” invited 
the saloon keeper. 

“No, a thousand will be enough. How’s the trail 
down river?” 

“You’ll have a trail. An outfit pulled through 
the other day from the Koyukuk. Old Man Gordon 
an’ his gal. Purtiest gal I ever seen, too. They’ve 
got a string of dogs they think kin run, an’ they’re 
goin’ to enter ’em in the Sweepstakes.” The man 
laughed harshly, ‘‘They ain’t got no more show 
than a rabbit, runnin’ agin them Nome race 
dogs.” 


234 


North 


'"Gordon? Old Man Gordon, you say?” 

"Yes. Know him?” 

"Knew a man named Old Man Gordon once 
down to Dawson—before the big stampede. Maybe 
it’s the same one.” 

"Might be, at that,” agreed the saloon keeper. 
"But that gal of his’n! You’d ort to see her. Didn’t 
know they grow’d peaches on the Koyukuk. Bau- 
dette, here, he’s French, an’ nach’ly runs to wimmin 
more’n what us others does—she makes such a- hit 
with him that he offered to bet her dogs would win. 
I give him odds of ten-to-one agin ’em. They can’t 
win. 

"Got any more dust at ten-to-one that says they 
can’t win?” asked MacShane. 

"Why, do you know them dogs?” queried the 
man suspiciously. 

MacShane laughed: "Never saw ’em or heard 
of ’em,” he replied. "It’s just a hunch—an’ when 
I get a hunch, I ride it. Ten-to-one’s a good bet if 
I lose.” 

"How much do you want of it?” 

"Oh, couple hundred.” 

"All right, you’re on fer two hundred. If them 
Koyukuk dogs wins, you stop in on your way back 
an’ collect three thousan’.” 

"I’ll stop,” grinned MacShane, and headed his 
dogs down river. 

At Candle he bought an entire new outfit of 
clothing, and after a night’s rest, pulled for Nome. 


Man of the Far North 


235 


On the crest of Death Valley Hill he met the girl. 
MacShane had never, in any sense of the word, 
been a lady's man. The dance hall girls, with their 
association of liquor and music amused him for an 
evening, and were promptly forgotten. Of other 
women he knew nothing whatever. With Mac¬ 
Shane the trail was the thing—the trail, and what 
lay just beyond. He had been in the van of a dozen 
stampedes. He had owned scores of good claims. 
But always the onrush of the stampeders had driven 
him on. He had plenty of gold—how much he had 
no idea. Much of it he had taken from the gravel 
with his own hands, and much of it was the proceeds 
of the sale of claims. He did not care for gold, 
only for the finding of gold. He loved the game, 
and he played it—not for the gold, but for the game. 
It was this spirit that had held him for eight years 
far in the North beyond the haunts of men. To 
find the source of the strange red gold became his 
fetish. The red gold appealed to him as no other 
gold had ever appealed. And its quest kept him 
sane and keen, though living apart from his kind 
through the long drear nights of eight Arctic 
winters, and the unceasing daylight of eight short 
summers. 

And now, at last, he stood upon the threshold of 
his golden storehouse! During all the hours of the 
snow-trail he had pictured to himself what he would 
find when he had blasted his way into that moun¬ 
tain of fallen rock. A pocket? A crumbling lode? 


236 


North 


He would soon know. Trailing down the Kobuk, 
from Shungnak he had been almost sorry he had 
decided to stay at Nome for the dog race. Oh, 
well, what did it matter. A week, a month, a year ? 
A couple of weeks in the big camp would do him 
good. And then he would hit the trail, and when 
he again struck a camp a stampede would follow his 
back-trail—a stampede for red gold! Then—he 
would move on. Would harness his dogs and hit 
the long trail. Where? What did it matter, just 
so he got away from the crowd? There were other 
strikes to come. Dawson had not been the last 
strike, nor the Kovukuk. And the Colville would 
not be the last strike. There always would be an¬ 
other strike, and he, Burr MacShane would head 
some other stamp^.e, on some other far-off river. 
And again his name would be a by-word throughout 
all the North. 

He smiled whimsically: ‘‘TheyVe all forgot me 
by this time. I’ve be’n too long gone. There won’t 
anyone know me in Nome. There wasn’t any Nome 
when I come through this part of the country. It’s 
—let’s see—it’s twenty years ago. Twenty years— 
an’ in a little over a year I’ll be forty! Old Man 
MacShane, they’ll be callin’ me, then. Yup, Old 
Man MacShane!” and he laughed. 

When the girl disappeared on the trail to Candle 
MacShane mushed on. For an hour he mushed 
steadily, and with a start of surprise, he realized 
that during that hour he had been thinking entirely 


Man of the Far North 237 


of the girl he had met on the trail. He remeftihered 
that Christmas in Dawson, when he had lifted her 
onto the piano. He remembered that he had picked 
out the prettiest doll on the Christmas tree, and 
given it to her. *‘Funny I never noticed her, then,” 
he mused. “Must be because she’s grow’d up. But, 
eyes like that—I sure ought to have noticed. Kind 
of soft, an’ dark, like you could look way down into 
’em—an’ all the time you know she’s lookin’ into 
your own—sort of sizin’ you up. If a man had 
anything on his mind that he had to hide, he couldn’t 
look into those eyes . . . Wonder how much 
powder it’s goin’ to take to move enough of that 
rock to find out what’s under it . . . Swung out 
behind those dogs like a man . . . I’ll bet she can 
trail all day ... Ton of powder ought to do . . . 
She broke ’em herself, an’ she’s set on drivin’ that 
race. ... I can start in on the lower end an’ work 
up through . . . God! where’d she be if a blizzard 
hit, an’ she got caught here without shelter? . . . 
Main trouble’s goin’ to be handlin’ the damn rock 
after it’s blow’d out . . . Old Man Gordon won’t 
know me ... I wore a beard those days . . . 
Anyhow, I ain’t goin’ to be bothered with water, 
ril work into it before the thaw ... I won’t let 
on who I am . , . Wonder what he thought when 
he found his dust salted back in the shaft? Wonder 
if he told her? Hell—I hope not! Won’t make 
any difference, though, if they don’t know me.” 
And so it went, the man struggling to concentrate 


238 


North 


upon his red gold, and the girl obtruding his 
thoughts—muddling his problem. Half-angrily, he 
decided to banish thought of both the girl and the 
red gold from his mind. And so he continued his 
journey to Nome, thinking continuously of the girl 
with the soft dark eyes. 

MacShane drove a fast trail and arrived in Nome 
early in the evening of the second day after his meet¬ 
ing with Lou Gordon. He had heard that Nome 
was a big camp, and a live one. But he was totally 
unprepared to find a modern, electrically lighted city 
on the bleak coast of Norton Sound. “Camp— 
hell!” he exclaimed, as he passed along the brilliantly 
illuminated street, “She’s a town! I sure pc.ssed up 
a big thing when I quit this country an’ headed for 
the Yukon. But, I was only a kid, then.” 

Putting up his dogs, he strolled about the streets 
for a while, the displays in the shop windows hold¬ 
ing his attention. Men passed him on the sidewalks, 
singly and in groups, and men accompanied by 
women muffled to the ears in rich furs. But they 
paid him no heed. Now and then he saw a man 
clad in parka and moccasins but for the most part 
they were dressed as they would have dressed in 
Seattle or Vancouver. “Dude camp,” muttered 
MacShane, and for the first time in his life he knew 
that he was lonely. He grinned at the realization 
of it. He—Burr MacShane, who had mushed 
more lone trails than any man in the North, was 
lonely in the biggest camp in the North. One hour 


Man of the Far North 239 


of Nome had accompfished what eight long years in 
the Arctic solitudes had failed to accomplish—it had 
made him long for his kind. 

A door opened, and from a glittering palace of 
fun two men stepped, and passed on down the street. 
Attracted by the sound of music, MacShane entered 
the place and found himself in a spacious room the 
floor of which was dotted with small tables at which 
men and women were seated, eating and drinking. 
Upon a raised platform at the rear an orchestra was 
rendering music. To the right, a long bar ran the 
full length of the room. Men stood at this bar, each 
with his foot resting upon a polished brass rail, and 
poured their liquor from cut glass decanters that 
glittered in the blaze of light. Here was something 
he understood. While not in any sense a drinking 
man, MacShane’s visits to civilization had always 
been celebrated with more or less whiskey. He 
enjoyed the exhilaration of it. It was part of the 
game. 

“All this camp needs is wakin^ up,^’ he decided, 
and crossing to the bar, smote it loudly with his fist. 
“Surge up, you trail-hounds an’ have a drink!” he 
roared, in a voice that carried to the far corners of 
the room. But, there was no crowding to the bar. 
The orchestra played on, and the men and women 
at the tables stared. One or two snickered. The 
men at the bar turned on him in frank astonishment. 
Some of these also laughed. The linen-clad bar¬ 
tender opposite him stared at the gold sack that lay 


240 


North 


upon the bar before MacShane, and from the rear a 
man, also linen-clad, hurried toward him. 

“Cut that out!” he ordered, curtly. 

MacShane was bewildered. He felt as though he 
had been plunged suddenly into cold water. “What 
do you mean?” he managed to ask. 

“I mean you lay off the rough stuff, or out you go 
'—see? We don’t stand for that, here!” 

Before MacShane could reply, a large man de¬ 
tached himself from a group at the bar and stepped 
to his side. The man’s eyes were twinkling, and his 
lips smiled. The linen-clad one accorded him def¬ 
erence. MacShane noted that the steel-grey eyes 
of the big man hardened momentarily as he ad¬ 
dressed the other. 

“You go back, Strake, before you start some¬ 
thing. Leave him to me.” 

“Certainly, Mr. Smith. It’s all right, Mr. Smith,” 
the man rubbed his palms together, and slipped 
away. 

“Let’s liquor,” invited the man, “Here, shove 
this in your pocket.” He lifted MacShane’s sack 
from the bar, upon which the bartender had already 
placed decanter and glasses. Still in bewilderment, 
MacShane poured his drink, and the big man fol¬ 
lowed. 

“Trouble is with us—not you, sourdough,” he 
smiled. “We think we ain’t a camp any more— 
we’re a city. We’re dudes! There ain’t a man in 
the house that could make twenty-five miles on the 


Man of the Far North 241 


trail to save his life. We’re civilized plumb helpless. 
An’ it wasn’t so long ago that I struck this camp 
with a pair of greasy overalls an’ a ragged parka, 
an’ drunk whiskey out of a tin can. An’ Strake run 
the lowest lived dump in the camp. But times have 
changed. There’s more raw gold here than any¬ 
where else in the world—yet Strake ain’t even got 
a pair of scales. We don’t pan-wash an’ hand- 
sluice any more—an’ we pay our bills with checks.” 

The man paused and uplifted his glass. “Well, 
here’s how.” MacShane drank and returned the 
empty glass to the bar: “I see,” he said, slowly. 
“An’ I’m sure obliged to you for tellin’ me. I’d 
buy a drink, but I ain’t got a check.” 

The big man laughed. “Down the street,” he 
said, “and around the first corner to your right, 
you’ll see a sign that says MALAMUTE SALOON. 
Saloon —not cafe. If I was you, I’d kind of loaf 
down there. It’s—our kind of a dump. The boys 
will be glad to see you. An’ there’s scales sittin’ on 
the bar.” 

“Thanks,” said MacShane, “I’ll go there. So 
long.” As he passed close beside a table on his way 
to the door, he heard a man whisper to his com¬ 
panion, “That’s H. P. Smith. He’s cleaned up ten 
million, dredging.” 

In the Malamute Saloon, MacShane ordered a 
round of drinks, but he did it unostentatiously, half- 
expecting another rebuff. But the men in moc¬ 
casins and woolens crowded the bar and drank his 

16 



242 


North 


health heartily, and he was immediately swamped 
with invitations to drink with them. One more 
drink he took, and retiring to a table toward the 
rear, ordered supper. All about him, as he ate he 
could hear men discussing the great dog race. 
Argument waxed hot. Bets were made, and the 
stakes put with the proprietor. Life here was as it 
should be. Nome hadn’t all turned dude. 

But despite the familiar surroundings, MacShane 
realized that there was something lacking. The 
three drinks should have produced a mild exhilara¬ 
tion. A pleasant glow in his belly, and a faster 
coursing of the blood through his veins. At this 
very moment he should be feeling in a mood for 
comprehensive goodfellowship. He, too, should be 
placing his bets on the dog race. But, the liquor was 
taking an opposite effect. He felt depressed. His 
thought kept recurring to the girl on the trail. 
Why should he keep thinking of her? She was 
nothing to him. But, those eyes—^those dark eyes 
that seemed to look deep into a man’s very soul. 
Suppose something should go wrong out there? 
It is a bleak country, the wind-swept trail to Candle. 
Why hadn’t he waited on the trail. A waiter 
dumped an array of thick dishes before him, and 
mechanically, MacShane ate. “She’ll be here to¬ 
morrow night,” he muttered, “If nothin’ happens.” 
For a long time after the finish of his meal he sat 
and watched the men at the bar, and at the card 
tables that lined one side of the room. Slow anger 


Man of the Far North 243 


rose within him. Anger at the girl with the haunt¬ 
ing eyes. Here was he, Burr MacShane, for the 
first time in years in a live camp, his pockets bulging 
with dust, good liquor for the ordering, dance halls, 
every ingredient of a good time, and yet, here he sat 
lugubriously watching others disport themselves, as 
he longed to be disporting himself. Yet the sport 
had lost its appeal. He could not understand it, and 
unconsciously his mind took an introspective turn. 
What did he want to do? There was no answer. 
Try as he would he could arouse no spark of en¬ 
thusiasm for anything. He thought of the mass of 
loose rock at the end of his long trail. But, even 
the red gold had lost its appeal. In disgust, he rose 
from the table, paid for his meal, and walking 
straight to his hotel, went to bed. 


CHAPTER XXI 

THE PLOTTING OF JAKE DALZENE 

When Lou Gordon drove her dogs straight for 
the bright lights of Nome at the finish of their long 
run from Candle, she recognized the dark figure that 
waited beside the trail on the outskirts of the town, 
and halted the dogs with a word. A moment later 
she found herself pouring the story of the great 
run into the eager ears of this tall stranger, who 
listened with little nods of approval. When she had 
finished, the man went to the dogs and examined 
them one by one. “There ain’t a played-out dog in 
the bunch,” he announced, “Not one. They’ll do, 
all right. But how about you ? You must be about 
all in.” 

The girl smiled into the face that peered so solicit¬ 
ously into her own. “Oh, I’m all right. I could do 
it over again, if I had to! I’m tired, of course. 
But I’m good for a whole lot yet.” 

“You’re game, all right. Miss Gordon, but I wish 
you wouldn’t drive that race. It ain’t a woman’s 
job. Tell you what—let me drive for you!” 

“No, indeed! No one can handle those dogs like 
I can. No, if I win, I’ve got to drive them myself 
—and I’ve got to win!” 

Together they made their way into town, and 

244 


The Plotting of Jake Dalzene 245 

after bidding her good night, MacShane took a long, 
long walk and then went to bed. 

In the morning they met at breakfast, and Mac¬ 
Shane asked after her father. 

“I hardly ever see him,” laughed the girl, “His 
room is always empty by the time I get up, and he’s 
had his breakfast and is off to watch those boilers 
work.” 

“And, what do you find to do here all alone?” 
he asked. 

“Oh, I take the dogs out for a run in the morn¬ 
ing, and manage to fill in the rest of the day just 
looking around, or reading, or sewing. Would you 
like to go with me, out on the trail with the dogs?” 
she asked. 

“I sure would!” exclaimed the man, so quickly 
that for some reason they both blushed furiously, 
and laughed. 

From that time on the two were together every 
day, and for the greater part of every day. 

“Do you know,” said the girl, one day when they 
were out on the trail with the dogs, “That you have 
never told me your name!” 

MacShane laughed: “You never asked me,” he 
said. “But, I don’t think I’d tell you if you did— 
not yet, anyway.” 

“But, why not?” she asked, searching his smiling 
eyes. 

“Oh, we’ll just pretend it’s a kind of a game we’re 
playing. I know you, but you don’t know me. 


246 


North 


You^ll just have to take my word for it that I ain’t a 
hooch-runner, or a criminal of some sort. I ain’t 
really. I’m somethin’ of a minin’ man—in a small 
way—like your father, an’ thousands of others up 
here in the big country.” 

^‘But,” objected the girl, “I’ve got to call you 
something!” 

“Call me —Huloimee Tilakum/* 

''Htdoimee Tilakum/' repeated the girl, “Stranger. 
I don’t know whether I like that, or not.” 

“It’s the name you, yourself gave me—back there 
on the trail the first time we met,” he smiled, “Don’t 
you remember you warned me that Skookum didn’t 
like strangers.” 

“But, sometime you will tell me your name?” 

The man was silent for a space of seconds. 
“Yes,” he answered as he raised his eyes to hers, 
“yes, sometime, I think I shall tell you my name.” 

It was through MacShane that Lou Gordon was 
enabled to place the money that the men of Nolan 
had sent down to bet on her dogs. At first he 
readily got odds of ten-to-one, but as more and more 
money appeared to back the unknown Koyukuk 
dogs, the odds shrank to eight, to seven, to six, and 
on the last day before the race, MacShane found 
difficulty in placing the last thousand at five-to-one. 

During all this time he had only seen Old Man 
Gordon once. The old man did not recognize him, 
and with Lou sitting by and endeavoring to turn the 
conversation into other channels, MacShane listened 


The Plotting of Jake Dalzene 247 

patiently to a two-hour discourse on the absolute 
supremacy of “b’ilers” over wood-thawing. Later, 
when Lou apologized for her father’s harangue, 
MacShane laughed. “Oh don’t bother about that,” 
he assured her, “I believe he’s right.” 

Jake Dalzene’s surprise at meeting Lou Gordon 
on the trail between Nome and Soloman swiftly 
gave place to an outburst of rage that found vent in 
an outpouring of meaningless curses and a sense¬ 
less abuse of his dogs during the remaining journey 
to Nome. 

Dalzene’s presence on the Seward Peninsula had 
but indirectly to do with the Alaska Sweepstakes. 
With the escape of Skookum on Dali River, had 
vanished all thought of entering the great race. An 
infection in his mangled hand held him at Fort 
Gibbon in care of the Army surgeon who had saved 
the member only to have it heal into a twisted, and 
all but worthless, claw. 

It was while at the fort that Dalzene learned of 
the appearance on the Yukon of a United States 
marshal who was as proficient as he was persistent 
in the extermination of hooch-runners. And so it 
was that when the hand had healed sufficiently for 
travel, he quietly slipped up to Rampart City, loaded 
his remaining stock of liquor onto his sled and hit 
the trail for Nome. It was a long trail. Dalzene 
would have much prefered a trip up the Koyukuk. 
But, far rather would he have taken chances with the 


248 


North 


marshal and the Yukon, than to show up on the 
Koyukuk in the face of the protocol of the miner’s 
meeting. With hate-smouldering eyes he promised 
himself that some day he would quietly slip up to 
Myrtle and, in his own way, even up the score with 
the Gordons—but not yet. 

The upper Yukon, policed as it was by the 
Mounted would prove equally unhealthy, and the 
Tanana hardly less so. The lower coast had been 
closed to him for years, so perforce, he must hit for 
Nome. There were plenty of natives along the 
coast. If he made good time he could get rid of 
his hooch to the Eskimos and, by judicious betting 
on the big race, would have a chance to retrieve the 
fortune he had lost on the Koyukuk. 

Taking with him an Indian from Rampart, he 
made good time on the trail, despite the fact that, 
swath it as he would, his injured hand was so sensi¬ 
tive to the cold that it gave him almost constant pain. 
From Unalaklik north he managed to trade all of 
his hooch for fur. At Council he learned through 
careful inquiry that it was almost a foregone con¬ 
clusion that John Johnson would win the Sweep- 
stakes. Whereupon he placed several bets, and con¬ 
tinued his journey to Nome. 

Just beyond Soloman he had come face to face 
with Lou Gordon. One glance at Skookum, and he 
had swung wide to avoid the white fangs that had 
bared at sight and scent of him, and as the girl 
passed, the abysmal hate that had smouldered for 


The Plotting of Jake Dalzene 249 

weeks in his warped soul burst into a volcano of 
insane rage. Here, was the primal cause of all his 
misfortune. The dogs which had beaten him out of 
his fifteen thousand dollars—all he owned in the 
world except his outfit, and the single load of hooch 
cached at Rampart City. And here, glaring at him 
in all eagerness to finish a job only well begun, stood 
the great leader of those dogs, crouching with bared 
fangs. And in the brief interval before the outfit 
passed, it seemed as though the memory of each 
moment of pain that had been his since those fangs 
had struck, surged up within him, until as the outfit 
disappeared down the trail, he wiped cold sweat from 
his brow with the sleeve of his parka. 

In Nome he learned that the Gordon dogs were 
entered in the race and that Old Man Gordon was 
to drive. In Nome, as in Council, John Johnson’s 
team was the favorite. But Nome knew nothing 
of the Gordon dogs, and he, Dalzene, did know. 
The Gordon dogs were a joke in Nome. They were 
offering ten-to-one against them—and no takers. 
But, they had never seen those dogs run I 

The first thought that entered Dalzene’s head was 
to take the short end of that ten-to-one money. If 
the Gordon dogs won, he could clean up big. But 
right there, the supreme hatred of his soul mani¬ 
fested itself. The talk in Nome was that already 
the stakes for the race had mounted to seven thous¬ 
and dollars, and that in all probability from fifteen 
hundred to two thousand would be added from the 


250 


North 


proceeds of a big dance that was to be held on the 
night of the twelfth. If he won, so would the Gor¬ 
dons! All Alaska would be talking of the great 
dog that led the team, and of the old man who drove 
them—the dog that had maimed him for life, and 
the man who had caused him to lose his fifteen 
thousand dollars! No I He would bet even 
money on Johnson’s dogs, and somehow he would 
put the Gordon team out of the running. He’d 
show ’em! They couldn’t beat him out of his 
money and get away with it! They weren’t on the 
Koyukuk, now! And this was only the beginning. 
Wait till he appeared suddenly on Myrtle—then the 
real squaring of accounts would come off! 

For days after the return of the girl, Dalzene 
watched for a chance to strike. His first intent was 
to injure, or kill the leader. He tried to ingratiate 
himself with the keeper of the dogs at the hotel but 
the man had taken an intense liking to the girl with 
the dark eyes, and he cared for her dogs as though 
they had been his own. Furthermore, the man 
knew dogs, and loved them. On the day Dalzene 
appeared at the kennels, with the apparent intention 
of a friendly chat, the keeper noted instantly the 
actions of Skookum, who crouched on his chain with 
bared fangs. Noted, also, that Dalzene uncon¬ 
sciously shrank back from the dog, although not 
within several yards of him. 

“Great dog you’ve got there,” hazarded Dalzene, 
with a show of friendliness. 


The Plotting of Jake Dalzene 251 

answered the man, dryly, as he met Dal- 
zene’s glance with a stony stare. “Fm jest about to 
turn him loose fer a run.” As he spoke he started 
toward Skookum, whose smouldering amber eyes 
seemed to flash red lights as they fastened upon Dal¬ 
zene. 

“For Christ’s sake— don^t!^^ Dalzene’s voice rose 
in a thin scream, and the next instant the corral gate 
slammed, and white faced, Dalzene stood peering 
through from the outside. 

Advancing to the gate, the keeper spoke deliber¬ 
ately, “I don’t know who you be—an’ I don’t give a 
damn. I do know that if you ever show up around 
this corral agin while that dog is here—what one 
of us leaves of you, the other one will finish. Now 
git!” 

And Dalzene ‘‘got.” Thereafter he sought other 
means of putting the Gordon dogs out of the 
running. He considered hiding behind an ice-hum¬ 
mock and taking a shot with a rifle as the dogs went 
past on their daily exercise run. But, decided the 
risk was too great in a country where there was no 
timber. Day after day he cudgeled his brains for 
a plan, and then, with the great event only a few 
days oif he hit it. So effective, and yet so beauti¬ 
fully simple that the only wonder was he had not 
thought of it before. 

Whereupon, he purchased a bottle of liquor, and 
bided his time until the day before the race. 

Immediately after breakfast on that day Old Man 


252 


North 


Gordon visited an abandoned working at the out¬ 
skirts of the town to look over a small boiler which 
had been offered to him at a bargain. A half hour 
later from the direction of this abandoned dump, 
the Indian who had accompanied Dalzene from 
Rampart, staggered up the street, waving his bottle 
of liquor and howling defiance in the faces of all 
white men. With admirable promptitude, the hand 
of the law fell heavily upon his shoulder, and he was 
jailed. It happened that Dalzene was one of a 
small group of the curious who followed the officer 
to the jail with his prisoner, and there when ques¬ 
tioned, the Indian stated that he had bought the 
hooch from an old man—a white man, and 
that the man was down by the old dump. Two 
officers, starting immediately for the abandoned 
dump, were accosted by Dalzene, who confidentially 
slipped them the word that he had happened to be 
passing the aforementioned dump, an hour since, 
and had seen a man who wore a beard, pass the In¬ 
dian a bottle of liquor, in exchange for some money. 
It seemed like a damned shame to pinch the Injun, 
and he for one, would be glad to see any man con¬ 
victed that would sell hooch to an Injun. 

This tallied so accurately with the rather vague 
story of the drunken man that the officers doubled 
their pace, and a few moments later Old Man Gor¬ 
don, fighting in righteous rage, roaring loudly his 
protest, was dragged to jail and locked up in a cell, 
after having been duly identified by the Indian. 


The Plotting of Jake Dalzene 253 

In the meantime Dalzene had disappeared from 
the vicinity and, directly across the street from the 
hotel, came face to face with the man he had noticed 
very often recently in company with Lou Gordon. 
He knew nothing of this man, except that it was he 
who was backing the Gordon dogs so heavily that he 
had forced the odds down from ten-to-one to six-to- 
one. Instantly Dalzene’s fingers closed about his 
remaining roll of bills, and abruptly he accosted the 
stranger. ‘‘I got five hundred that says John John¬ 
son’s dogs wins the race!” he challenged, truculently. 

“The hell you have!” replied MacShane, “Well 
you won’t have, after tomorrow. Step over here 
to the Malamute, an’ we’ll put up the dust.” 

The matter was soon settled, and, while MacShane 
strolled over and watched a game of solo, Dalzene re¬ 
freshed himself at the bar. “That’ll fix ’em,” he 
muttered, “Old Man Gordon hain’t on the Koyukuk, 
now. They’ll put his bail so high he won’t never be 
able to raise it here where they don’t know him, an’ 
I know enough about dogs to know that with their 
reg’lar driver out of the way, they hain’t goin’ to do 
no good in the race. The gal, she alius exercised 
’em fer him, but it was the old man that druv the 
race that beat me out—an’ it’s him that’s entered to 
drive this one.” And well satisfied with himself, 
Dalzene quitted the saloon, a short time before Mac¬ 
Shane left the place and crossed over to the hotel. 


CHAPTER XXII 

POISON 


As MacShane stepped from the door of the saloon 
and headed toward -the hotel, Lou Gordon drew 
swiftly back from the window of her room and 
sinking upon the edge of her bed, stared for a long 
time at the opposite wall. Quite by accident, she 
had happened to glance out of her window, at the 
moment Dalzene had accosted MacShane upon the 
sidewalk opposite. She had seen them converse for 
a few moments, and then, together, walk down the 
street and enter the saloon, and she had watched 
for an hour or more until they reappeared, sepa¬ 
rately, but within a few minutes of each other. 
What did it mean? Who was Hidoimee Tilakum? 
And what on earth could he have in common with 
that prince of all devils, Dalzene? The girl pressed 
her hand to her breast. There was a strange lump— 
almost a pain, that seemed pressing upon her— 
weighting her down. 

For more than a week this clear-eyed, handsome 
stranger had been her constant companion. Frankly 
she had admitted to herself that she liked him. 
Deep down in her heart she knew that her regard 

254 


Poison 


255 


for him had swiftly ripened into a far deeper 
emotion. In her mind’s eye she had compared him 
with other men, and she knew that he stood above 
them all. His very presence stirred unsuspected 
depths within her. When they were together the 
whole world sang with happiness, when they were 
apart, there was a void. And now, with her own 
eyes she had seen him apparently hand in glove with 
Jake Dalzene! Oh, what did it mean? In vain 
her shocked brain groped for an answer. “He is 
good!” she half-sobbed. “I know he is good! I 
can see it in his eyes—and the dogs know! Surely 
Skookum would know—Skookum that distrusts all 
men. And I have trusted him with money I brought 
down from Nolan, and he has worked hard in 
placing it all.” Mechanically, as though to corrob¬ 
orate the statement, she produced the sheaf of re¬ 
ceipts signed by the proprietor of the Malamute 
Saloon, which showed that the money was in 
his possession. Surely, if he had been anything 
but the soul of honor, he could have made away 
with the money, and pursuit would have been im¬ 
possible—she didn’t even know his name. But— 
why didn’t she know ? What possible reason could 
he have for concealing his identity? What possible 
connection could he have with Dalzene? He had 
told her that he had bet heavily on her dogs him¬ 
self. Why, then should he have anything in com¬ 
mon with Dalzene, who bore her only hatred? 

A sharp knock upon her door brought her to her 


256 


North 


feet. She answered the knock to be confronted by 
a police official. “Sorry to trouble you, Miss,” he 
said, not unkindly, “But we’ve got a hooch runner 
locked up, an’ he says he’s your father, an’ he wants 
you should come down to the jail right away an’ 
fetch bail. But, they ain’t no use botherin’ with the 
bail part of it. Judge Cross, he’s declared a holiday 
till after the race, an’ they ain’t no one else got the 
authority to fix the bail. You’re welcome to come 
down an’ talk to him, though. He ain’t takin’ his 
arrest none easy.” 

The girl stared uncomprehendingly as the man 
talked: “Dad! Arrested!” she managed to gasp, 
when the man paused, “And, for hooch-running! 
You’re crazy! Why, if you knew dad!” 

“We’ve got the goods on him, all right,” answered 
the man, “I’m sorry. Miss—if you didn’t know. 
But he done it. Sold a bottle of hooch to an Injun. 
Shall I wait, or are you cornin’ ?” 

“Yes, of course I’m coming! Just a minute. 
I’ll tell you, though, you’ve made an awful mistake! 
It’s the most ridiculous thing I ever heard of!” 

Ten minutes later Lou Gordon stood in the corri¬ 
dor of the jail and listened to her father’s outpouring 
of wrath. Stamping up and down in the narrow 
confine of his cell, the old man bitterly condemned 
the police and vociferously asserted his innocence. 

“Of course, you are innocent, dad!” cried the 
girl. “There has been a mistake—an awful mistake 
—somewhere.” 


Poison 


257 ' 

“ ^Tis no mistake !’* roared the old man, “ ’Tis a 
frame-up—to make us lose the race! They locked 
me up because they’re afraid to let me drive .that 
race! I ain’t be’n in here two hours for nothin’ 1 
I’ve thought it all out! A dirty trick! That’s what 
it is—an’ the judge, an’ the whole town is in on it! 
They say I can’t get bail till after the race! Don’t 
that prove it? But—you’ve got to get bail—lass! 
I’ve got to drive that race! Go out an’ show ’em 
up, lass! Surely there must be someone in the 
town that will stand for fair play. Go long now, 
an’ get me out! Go to the mayor! Go to some¬ 
one! Go to everybody!” he cried, excitedly, “An’ 
tell ’em what’s cornin’ off!” 

While the old man raved, a new train of thought 
coursed through the girl’s brain, and as soon as pos¬ 
sible she quitted the place, promising to see what she 
could do. And, as she hurried toward the hotel, she 
smiled, and in the privacy of her own room the 
smile broadened, and became an audible chuckle: 
“Poor old dad!” she murmured, as she rearranged 
a wind-tossed strand of hair before her mirror, 
“It will be hard on him, but I guess he’ll have to stay 
right where he is until after the race—then I’ll bail 
him out with my own money! Whoever it was that 
had him arrested certainly solved my problem for 
me. I just know that horrible Dalzene is at the 
bottom of it. He thinks it will spoil our chance of 
winning if dad don’t drive. But, why should he 
care? He’s not in the race. Just spite, I suppose, 


17 


258 


North 


because we beat him at Nolan. If he only knew!” 
and the words trailed into a silvery laugh. 

Once more her thoughts turned to her tall 
Stranger, but instead of dwelling dreamily upon his 
spoken words, his easy, graceful movement of 
frame, or the deep, intense look that she had more 
than once surprised in his blue-grey eyes; they 
leaped at once to his meeting with Dalzene and the 
apparent comradery with which they had walked 
down the street and entered the saloon. As the 
picture recalled itself, a new thought leaped into her 
brain. Could it be possible that, knowing as he did, 
of her dilemma, he himself had contrived the arrest 
of her father? But if so, what had Dalzene to do 
with it? Surely, her interests were not Dalzene’s, 
and if the stranger really had her interests at heart 
he could have nothing in common with the hooch- 
runner of Rampart. With a shrug, she gave it up. 
She would know soon. She must go down and 
have her own name substituted for that of her father 
in the entry book. She was to dine with the 
Stranger at six, and afterward they were to com¬ 
plete the plan for preventing her father from driving 
the race. 

It was after dark when she returned to the hotel 
to find her Stranger waiting, and together they en¬ 
tered the dining room where the man led the way to 
a small table in the center of which a mass of richly- 
hued blossoms blazed from a glittering cut glass 
bowl. 


Poison 


259 


“Oh!’^ exclaimed the girl, glancing swiftly from 
the riot of color into the smiling eyes of the man, 
“Oh, how wonderful!” 

“Do you like ’em?” he smiled. 

“Like them! They are the most beautiful flow¬ 
ers I ever saw! Where in the world did you e:et 
them ?” 

“There’s a kind of a Dutchman that raises ’em 
all under glass,” he explained, “I got all he had, ex¬ 
cept the ones that they’ve got ordered for the big 
wreath that they hang around the neck of the winner 
of the Sweepstakes. You’ll be wearin’ that, too—if 
we can figure out how we’re goin’ to keep your dad 
from drivin’. But, really, Miss Gordon, I wish 
you wouldn’t tackle it. Let me drive the race for 
you. I can handle the dogs—you know that, now. 
You can’t depend on the weather this time of year, 
and if it kicks up a bad storm out there without any 
timber to run to, it’s goin’ to be hell—just plain 
hell!” 

The girl smiled at the intensity of the man’s 
words, and as she spoke she looked searchingly into 
his eyes: “Don’t worry about me,” she said, “All 
my life I have lived in the North. I’m not afraid of 
the storms. I’m no chechako” 

“No, you are no chechako” the man replied, 
gravely, “But, even the sourdoughs don’t always 
pull through.” 

“Do you know where my father is, this minute ?” 

Surprised at the abruptness of the question, the 


26 o 


North 


man met her searching gaze: ‘Why, no. Fooling 
around with a boiler somewhere, I suppose.” 

“He is in jail,” announced the girl, noting the 
genuinely shocked expression that leaped into the 
man’s face. 

“In . . . jail!” he uttered the words slowly, as 
though trying to grasp their meaning. “In jail! 
What do you mean?” 

“I mean that they have got him locked up in jail, 
charged with selling liquor to an Indian.” 

The man half-rose from his chair: “Who has?” 
he cried, “It’s an outrage! Who had him locked 
up? But, don’t you worry! Wait right here!” 
he was on his feet, now. “I’ll have him out in a 
jiffy! They’ve got to let him out on bail!” 

The girl motioned him to be seated, and as he 
stared into her face he saw that the corners of her 
mouth twitched into just the suspicion of a smile. 
“You can’t get him out on bail until after the race. 
The judge has declared a holiday. It’s hard on 
dad, but—don’t you see? He can’t drive the race 
in jail!” 

There was no question about the smile on the 
girl’s lips, now, and as the man slowly settled into 
his chair, he laughed aloud: “So that’s what you’ve 
been up to, is it? But, you’d better never let him 
find it out. He’d be furious!” 

“I had nothing whatever to do with it,” answered 
the girl, “But, I think I know who did.” 

“Who?” 


Poison 


261 


*‘Jake Dalzene/* 

“Who’s Jake Dalzene?” 

The waiter was removing the first course of the 
specially prepared dinner that MacShane had 
ordered with the help of the head waiter, and which 
included everything obtainable in Nome that was not 
to be found on the regular bill of fare. The fingers 
that conveyed a ripe olive to the girl’s lips trembled 
slightly. Had she heard aright? Was the man 
actually feigning ignorance of Dalzene, when, with 
her own eyes she had seen them together, that very 
afternoon? Was it possible that he was a con¬ 
federate of the hooch-runner, and that she was be¬ 
ing made the victim of some deep-laid scheme? 
But, no. For this man knew, if Dalzene did not, 
that to arrest her father to prevent him from driving 
the race would be playing directly into her hands. 
What then? As she spoke, she was conscious that 
there was a peculiar tightening at the muscles of 
her throat: “Don’t you know Jake Dalzene?’’ the 
words were uttered with an effort. 

“Don’t know him. Never even heard of him, 
that I know of,” answered the man. 

The dinner was a flat failure. Somehow Lou Gor¬ 
don stuck it through, answering the man’s questions 
she never knew how, forcing commonplace remarks 
by the utmost effort of will, and longing for the 
moment the miserable ordeal should be over with. 
Once or twice as she glanced into the man’s face her 
imagination discerned something sinister in the 


262 


North 


searching gaze of his eyes. Why had she never 
noticed it before? She was conscious of a dull pain 
in the region of her heart. The last course re¬ 
mained before her untouched. She began to feel 
queer all over. The dull pain in her heart gave 
place to a very real pain in her stomach. Stabs of 
excruciating agony shot through her body. Her 
vitals were being torn asunder in a mighty grip. 
The color receded from her face, and thin beads of 
cold sweat appeared upon the marble whiteness of 
her brow. She was aware that the Stranger was 
standing over her, and instinctively she shrank away 
from the touch of his hand. The room was growing 
dark. She could hear voices—excited voices—far off. 

When she opened her eyes she was in bed in her 
own room. A man stood beside the bed regarding 
her intently. He was not the Stranger. Beside 
him stood a woman whom the girl recognized as the 
chambermaid who took care of the room. The 
man spoke: “You’ll pull through, all right,” he 
said, reassuringly, “Bad case of ptomaine poisoning. 
If we hadn’t pumped you out just when we did. I’m 
afraid it would have been all over with you.” 

“How long have I been—here?” asked the girl, 
surprised at the weak tones of her voice. 

“About three hours. But you must be quiet, now. 
Don’t try to talk. I’ve left medicine and full in¬ 
structions with Kate, here. It isn’t the first time 
we’ve worked together. She’s as good as any nurse. 
A few days of quiet is all you need.” 


Poison 


263 


few days!’^ cried the girl, struggling to raise 
herself. “Why, I’ve got to drive the Sweepstakes 
tomorrow! I’ve got to!” 

The doctor smiled: “There, there, that’s all 
right,” he soothed, “Don’t get all excited, now. Go 
to sleep if you can.” 

“But—I tell you I’ve got to drive that race!” 

“Sure, that’s all right. You can drive the race, 
all right. But, the race don’t start till tomorrow. 
Get a good night’s rest, and if you feel like driving 
the Sweepstakes in the morning, why go right 
ahead.” The girl sank back onto her pillow, and 
watched between half-closed lids as the man placed 
some queer-looking instruments into a small black 
bag. A few moments later he departed, and with a 
low moan, she turned her face toward the wall. 
But, she did not go to sleep. 

A half hour later the woman, Kate, answered a 
gentle knock on the door. Lou Gordon recognized 
the voice of the Stranger asking in low tones how 
she fared. A mighty rage surged up within her 
and summoning all her strength, she raised herself 
to her elbow and addressed him in faltering tones: 
“Your scheme didn’t work! It almost did—but 
not quite. I see it all, now! When you and Dal- 
zene found out I wouldn’t let you drive and lose the 
race for me, you tried to poison me, after taking 
care that poor old dad was out of the way! But 
you failed! I’ll drive that race tomorrow—and 
I’ll win! All your scheming won’t stop me! You’ve 


264 


North 


made it harder—^that’s all!’’ and with a sob, she 
fell exhausted onto her pillow. 

Beyond the door MacShane listened to the 
accusations in horror. As the faltering voice stilled, 
he was about to answer, but with fingers to her lips, 
Kate motioned for silence. “She’s kind of out of 
her head,” she whispered, and without a word, Mac¬ 
Shane made his way to the street, and with bowed 
head, hunted up the doctor, and later the dog keeper, 
with whom he held long discourse. 


CHAPTER XXIIl 
“I DRIVE THOSE DOGS!" 

In the early days of the lower Yukon, the name of 
Bill Ames had been a name to conjure with. Dog 
train freighter in winter, and poling boat freighter 
in summer, he had been no small factor in the de¬ 
velopment of the country. Then came the misstep 
that plunged him into water with the temperature 
at fifty below zero, a misadventure that cost him a 
foot and took him forever off the trail. For years 
thereafter he worked at various jobs along the river, 
until the big stampede found him a passenger on one 
of the first boats that landed at Nome. There, as 
upon the Yukon, he worked at odd jobs until his 
knowledge of dogs attracted the attention of the 
proprietor of Nome’s principal hotel, who engaged 
him to look after the dog teams of his guests. Un¬ 
like most of the old timers on the Yukon, Bill Ames 
had married a white woman, and with her he lived 
in a log house that formed one side of the dog corral 
at the rear of the hotel. 

Upon the door of this domicile MacShane 
knocked, and was cordially invited to enter. For 
the old sourdough instinctively liked this stranger 
who daily accompanied Lou Gordon to the dog 

265 


266 


North 


corral. Bill Ames knew dogs, and loved them. 
And also he knew men. And with the same cer¬ 
tainty that he had taken measure of Dalzene, he had 
also taken measure of MacShane. For he had been 
quick to note that here, also, was a man who knew 
and loved dogs. But there was something else that 
attracted him to MacShane—an indefinable some¬ 
thing about the man that stirred vague memories. 
A word here, a slight trick of movement—some¬ 
thing, that caused Ames • to continually cudgel his 
brain in a vain endeavor to place him. He felt sure 
he had seen this man before—had known him—but 
where? The man never volunteered information as 
to his identity, nor did Ames ever violate the ethics 
of the country by asking it. Therefore, when Mac¬ 
Shane knocked at his door he was genuinely glad to 
see him. 

“Well, everything’s set fer the big race,” said 
Ames, by way of conversation, when the two had 
settled themselves into their chairs and lighted their 
pipes. 

“Yes, I’ve be’n kind of keepin’ cases on these 
other teams, an’ it looks to me as though Miss Gor¬ 
don’s dogs have got as good a chance to win as any 
of ’em, provided they’re handled right.” 

“You spoke a mouthful,” agreed Ames. “Them 
dogs is right! I claim to know a little bit about 
dogs, an’ after I’d got acquainted with ’em fer a 
few days, an’ seen how she handled ’em I slipped out 
an’ got me two hundred dollars worth of the short 


‘'I Drive Those Dogs!” 


267 


end of a ten-to-one bet—an’ I ain’t settin’ oneasy, 
neither. That gal’s got the dogs, an’ she knows 
how to handle ’em.” 

MacShane nodded: “She does,” he agreed, “But 
the fact is, she ain’t goin’ to drive ’em.” 

“Ain’t goin’ to drive ’em!” cried Ames, “What 
d’you mean ? She told me how her old man wanted 
to drive, an’ how she had got to outfigger him some¬ 
way. But, I heard yesterday that he’d got run in 
fer peddlin’ hooch to Injuns—an’ I was damn glad 
of it. Did he git bail?” 

“No,” answered MacShane, “He didn’t get bail. 
He ain’t goin’ to drive, neither.” 

“Who is, then?” 

“Well, that’s up to you—an’ me.” 

“What d’you mean?” 

“It’s like this. She’s sick—sick as hell. Got 
poisoned at supper, an’ the doc had to pump her 
out. She says she’s goin’ to drive anyhow. But 
she can’t. I just come from talkin’ with the doc, 
an’ he says she won’t be out of danger for several 
days, an’ she can’t even get out of bed—let alone 
drive the dog race. An’ the hell of it is she thinks 
I poisoned her. She’s out of her head, prob’ly— 
but that’s what she thinks.” 

As MacShane talked, Bill Ames’ eyes narrowed. 
“How come her to git poisoned at supper?” he 
asked. 

“We had supper together, an’ I kind of wanted it 
to be a big feed, so I rustled up a lot of extra grub 


268 


North 


—fancy stuff— canned lobsters, and canned olives, 
an^ a lot more stuff. The doc said it was one of 
them that poisoned her—ptomaine poison he calls it, 
an’ if he hadn’t got there quick an’ pumped her out, 
she’d be dead, by now. So, seein’ how I’m to blame, 
in a way, for her gettin’ sick, it looks like it’s up to 
me to win that race for her.” 

Bill Ames regarded the speaker for a full minute 
through narrowed lids. “It looks damn queer to 
me,” he said, bluntly. “The old man gittin’ pinched, 
an’ the gal gittin’ pizened all to onct. Facts is, I 
know a damn good dog driver here in Nome. Them 
dogs of hem has got to win. Not because I’ve got 
a little money up on ’em, but because that gal is as 
square, an’ white, an’ as game a proposition as the 
North ever seen-” 

“Put her there, pardnerl” exclaimed MacShane, 
impulsively offering his hand. 

Ames ignored the hand. “As I was goin’ on to 
say,” he continued, still with his eyes on MacShane’s 
face, “It would break her heart to lose this race. 
They trailed all the way down from the Koyukuk 
to win it—an’ it’ll bust ’em if they don’t. Which 
thing bein’ the case. I’m goin’ to see that them dogs 
is handled by someone that’ll drive ’em to win.” 

“I know the dogs,” answered MacShane, slowly, 
“I can drive ’em to win?” 

“You know the dogs, all right,” answered Ames, 
without removing his gaze from the other’s eyes, 
“An’ you prob’ly could drive ’em to win. But— 



I Drive Those Dogs! ’’ 


269 


I don’t know you! They’s somethin’ damn queer 
somewheres. They’s somethin’ about this here busi¬ 
ness that stinks. Mebbe you ain’t it, an’ mebbe you 
be. They was a damn skunk come nosin’ around the 
corral a while back that that there Skookum dog 
know’d. He smelt him ’fore he got inside the 
corral, an’ if I’d onchained him, he’d of et him up. 
This afternoon I was in the Malamute Saloon gittin’ 
a drink, when you an’ this here party comes in to¬ 
gether. I didn’t think nothin’ of it then—but I do 
now!” Ames paused and glared, as just the shadow 
of a smile played at the corners of MacShane’s 
mouth. ^‘Mebbe you see somethin’ funny about it,” 
he burst forth truculently, “But if I know’d you 
pizened that gal. I’d kill you where you set—an’ 
mebbe you’d see somethin’ funny about that!” 

“Maybe I would,” smiled MacShane, “Because 
the joke would be on you. Listen here. Bill Ames!” 
It was the first time MacShane had addressed him 
by name, and the dog keeper’s eyes opened in sur¬ 
prise. “I haven’t told anyone here my name, for 
reasons of my own. Miss Gordon knows me only 
as Huloimee Tilakum. But, I’m goin’ to let you 
tell me my name—tell m-e, an’ no one else, either be¬ 
fore or after the race, or I’ll never speak to you 
again.” 

“What the hell you talkin’ about?” exploded the 
man. “Me tell you yer name! You full of hooch? 
Er what?” 

Disregarding the interruption, MacShane pro- 


270 


North 


ceeded: “It was way back—I don’t remember the 
year. The lower river was plugged with rough 
ice, an’ a certain freighter thought he could figure 
out a new trail—up the Innoko, through the 
Kaiyuh Mountains, an’ hit Kaltag by way of Kaiyuh 
Slough. It might of worked if the freighter could 
have got through the mountains before he run out 
of grub. When he was on his last dog-” 

Bill Ames leaped from his chair, and stood before 
MacShane, staring straight into his eyes: “Just a 
minute!” he cried, excitedly pointing a forefinger 
into MacShane’s face, “You tell me this, an’ By 
God, ril know it’s you! What happened about a 
year or two after that, in a cabin at the big bend of 
iheAnvik?” 

MacShane grinned: “Why, Bill, me an’ you 
come onto Kultus McCormack an’ a breed girl that 
he’d toled off from the mission—an’ we gave him 
—what he had cornin’ 1” 

''Burr MacShane! By all the gods that’s swore 
by! Burr MacShane! You damn old sourdough! 
Where in hell you be’n fer the last twenty years, or 
so? You was only a kid, then, you might say— 
but you was some man! Them was the days— 
when I had my two legs in under me, an’ the country 
wasn’t all gummed up with chechckosT 

“You’re right. Bill! But, do I drive those dogs? 
Do you think I can handle ’em?” 

“That’s right, damn you, rub it in! Mebbe I 
was a fool. Burr . . . but somehow, that gal-” 




“ I Drive Those Dogs! ” 


271 


^Tool—hell! You done just right/^ 

'‘An’ did you know me all. the time ? An’ never 
let on!” 

“Sure, I did,” laughed MacShane, “You ain’t any 
older than you was then, but I’m twice as old. I’ve 
never forgot you. Bill.” 

“All Alaska used to be talkin’ about what a hell 
of a trail musher you was. Gosh sakes! If them 
other mushers know’d who was goin’ to drive them 
dogs, they’d all quit! You’ll win—but look out fer 
Johnson an’ Scotty Allen. They’re both damn good 
men, an’ they’ve got damn good dogs—but you’ll win. 
You’ve got to win—er you don’t git the gal-” 

“What do you mean?” cried MacShane. 

. Ames laughed, knowingly: “Go on with you! 
I’m fer you. An’ take it from me—they ain’t an¬ 
other woman in the North that’s deuce-high with her, 
anyways you look at it. You’re a lucky dog, Burr.” 

“You’re crazy as hell!” exclaimed MacShane, dis¬ 
playing real annoyance, “If you think Miss Gordon 
could ever—ever care that way, for an old sour¬ 
dough like me, you’re a fool—an’ as for me—we’re 
just good friends—or were till she got the idea I 
poisoned her—an’ that’s all there is to it.” 

“All right—have it yer own way. But I’ve kind 
of had a chanct to see which way the wind was 
blowin’ fer a couple of weeks—an’ I’m tellin’ it to 
you if you don’t want to be in love with that gal, an’ 
don’t want her to be in love with you—^then you’re 
in a hell of a fix—that’s all I got to say.” 



272 


North 


At eight o’clock the following morning Mac- 
Shane appeared at the corral to help Ames harness 
the dogs. They had just concluded the operation 
when through the gate walked Lou Gordon. Both 
men stared at the figure that approached them. The 
girl’s face was deathly white, and it was evident 
from her tightly-pressed lips and her slow move¬ 
ments that it was only by the supremest effort of 
will she managed to keep on her feet at all. 

MacShane sprang to her side: ‘‘Miss Gordon!” 
he cried, “What are you doing here? The doctor 
said it would be several days before you would be 
out of danger! How did you get here? You can 
hardly stand!’’ 

The girl regarded him with flashing eyes: “You 
should be proud of your work,” she faltered, with 
withering scorn. “But, you should have waited un¬ 
til this morning. I have had a night’s rest—and I 
am perfectly well. I will win the race in spite of 
you and your partner, Dalzene.” She turned to 
Ames who stood beside the dogs. “I’ll take 
them, now,” she said, “Did you go over the 
harness?” 

“Yes, Miss—but, you ain’t goin’ to try an’ drive 
—an’ you can’t hardly stand on yer feet! Why, 
you won’t even git to the startin’ place!” 

MacShane interrupted, his words rasping harshly, 
with a note the girl had never before heard in his 
voice. “I drive those dogs!” and as Lou Gordon 
stared into his face she saw that the blue-grey eyes 


Drive Those Dogs!’' 


273 


were hard. “You—you—” she faltered, as her 

two bare hands clutched at her breast. 

Without a word, MacShane took one swift step, 
gathered her into his arms, and motioning Ames to 
open the door of the log house, carried her in, 
despite her furious struggles. But the struggles 
were futile and short lived. The violent illness had 
left the girl so weak and dizzy that the exertion of 
dressing herself and walking to the corral had taxed 
her strength to the utmost. As MacShane carried 
her into the room her muscles suddenly relaxed, and 
she lay limp and lifeless in his arms while Mrs. Ames 
hurriedly arranged the bed which had not yet been 
made up for the day. 

From the moment his arms closed about her, Mac¬ 
Shane had been conscious of a strange, indescribable 
thrill that welled from the very depths of his being 
—a thrill so new, and so wonderful that he stood as 
one in a trance holding the girl’s body close against 
his own until the words of Ames roused him to 
action. 

“Lay her on the bed, Burr, an’ I’ll hunt up the doc 
while the old woman tries to fetch her around. 
Come on, now, it’s time you got a-goin’. You got 
to git the driver’s name changed, an’ it’s gittin’ 
along to startin’ time. We’ll see that she’s took 
care of.” 

Very gently MacShane laid the girl upon the bed, 
and with one long look into the pallid face, he turned 
abruptly and left the room. 

18 


CHAPTER XXIV 
THE ALASKA SWEEPSTAKES 

^‘Havin’ a hell of a time to find a driver for those 
Gordon dogs,” grinned the entry man, as MacShane 
reported the change of drivers. “First it was 
Stewart Gordon, then Lou Gordon, an’ now they’re 
changin’ it again. What name?” 

“Make it Huloimee Tilakum/' answered Mac¬ 
Shane. 

''Huioimee Tilakum! Jargon for Stranger, eh? 
All right, down she goes: Huloimee Tilakum. But, 
if John Johnson should break his neck, an’ Scotty 
an’ Eskimo John should founder themselves on 
strawberries, an’ you should happen to win the race, 
folks will be wantin’ to know a hell of a lot more 
about you than just The Stranger. They’ll be ask¬ 
in’ ‘Who is The Stranger’?” 

“Well, if they ask you,” grinned MacShane, “Just 
tell them all you know,” and turning on his heel, he 
pushed his way with difficulty through the dense 
throngs that crowded about the teams of Johnson, 
and Allen, and Eskimo John to the point where his 
own team waited, surrounded by a straggling group 
that eyed them indifferently. “There’ll be a differ- 

274 


The Alaska Sweepstakes 275 

ent story to tell when this race is over/’ he muttered 
savagely to himself, “They’ll be crowdin’ around 
these dogs fit to smother ’em—an’ they won’t know 
those other teams are alive.” 

It still lacked fifteen or twenty minutes of start¬ 
ing time; and MacShane’s eyes traveled up and 
down the street, resplendent in flags and bunting, 
and literally swarming with massed humanity. 
Never in his life had he seen so many people at one 
time. Indeed, he wondered whether all the people 
he had ever seen would equal in numbers the crowds 
that had collected to witness the start of the Alaska 
Sweepstakes, the great classic of the North. “Where 
do they all come from?” he speculated, “An’ where 
do they get the grub to feed ’em all ?” 

The officers were clearing the street. Men, 
women and children surged back onto the sidewalks 
and lined the thoroughfare in two solid masses. In 
the street remained only the race teams and their 
drivers. Seven teams beside his own, MacShane 
counted, two of twelve dogs, three of fourteen, one 
of sixteen, and Johnson’s team of eighteen. A few 
moments later they lined up for the start, each driver 
standing beside his leader. Whips were in evidence, 
and realizing the possibility of Skookum’s running 
amuck amid the cracking of whips, MacShane con¬ 
trived to be fumbling at the great leader’s collar 
when the shot sounded that started the racers over 
the long snow-trail. As the dog teams shot away a 
mighty roar of applause burst from thousands of 


276 


North 


throats. For a full minute, MacShane continued 
to work with the collar, and then, amid a vast chorus 
of jeers and cat-calls he gave the word, and Skoo- 
kum led his team in the wake of the vanishing 
racers. 

At Soloman, the first reporting station, MacShane 
learned that Allen was leading, having made the 
thirty-two miles in three hours and thirteen minutes. 
Fred Ayer was one minute behind him, and John¬ 
son had pulled in six minutes behind Ayer. Sapala, 
and Eskimo John, who drove the Council Kennel 
Club’s entry, came in together sixteen minutes later, 
while Fay Delezene and Paul Kjegsted were right 
on their heels. MacShane’s own time was three 
hours and forty-two minutes, twenty-nine minutes 
behind the leading team. 

At Timber, sixty-four miles from the starting 
point, the order remained unchanged, Allen making 
the distance in six hours and fifty-eight minutes. 
MacShane pulled in at 4:23, and noted with a grin 
that he had gained four minutes on Allen. Just be¬ 
yond Timber, Kjegsted came to grief with a broken 
sled runner and withdrew from the race. Twenty 
miles farther on MacShane passed Sapala, and over¬ 
took Eskimo John, and Ayer at Telephone Creek 
where they were resting, one hundred and twenty- 
two miles from the starting point. This left only 
Allen, Johnson, and Delezene ahead of him. Allen 
had reported in at 10:03, rested for ten minutes, fed 
his dogs, and pulled out. Johnson had pulled in 


The Alaska Sweeostakes 277 


twelve minutes behind Allen, and had gained five 
minutes by pausing only long enough to feed his 
dogs a handful of meal. Delezene had reported in 
two minutes after Johnson had left, and had pulled 
out without stopping. MacShane decided to do 
likewise as his dogs were still fresh. Eskimo John 
followed him out, and Ayer fell in behind him. 

At the summit of Death Valley Hill, MacShane 
passed Delezene, whose dogs seemed to be weaken¬ 
ing, and at Haven, one hundred and forty-six miles 
from Nome, he overtook Allen and Johnson who 
were resting. Allen had made the run in twenty- 
nine hours and three minutes, Johnson in twenty- 
nine hours and twenty minutes, and MacShane in 
twenty-nine hours and twenty-seven minutes. John¬ 
son was the first to leave, resting for only fifteen 
minutes. MacShane fed his dogs and pulled out 
five minutes later, leaving Allen mending a harness. 

At Gold Run, one hundred and eighty-two miles 
from the starting point, MacShane again overtook 
Johnson, pulling in five minutes after the leader. 
They had been thirty-three hours and thirty minutes 
on the trail, and each rested for ten minutes. 

As MacShane pulled out of Gold Run, Allen over¬ 
took him, and without stopping, pulled out right at 
his heels. With hands glued to the handle bars, 
MacShane studied his dogs as he ran. Skookum, 
the superb leader, was apparently as fresh as when 
he started. One by one, he watched critically each 
dog’s work, but could detect no hint of lameness 


278 


North 


or lagging. Iron man that he was, MacShane was 
beginning to tire. His muscles did not lag, but it 
was requiring a conscious effort of mind to hold 
them to the work. Johnson was nowhere in sight, 
and behind him he could hear Allen urging on his 
dogs. The temperature was rising, and MacShane, 
bathed in sweat, and conscious of a terrible thirst, 
sucked the first of the dozen lemons he had pro¬ 
vided for the purpose. 

He reached Candle Creek, the turning point of the 
race five minutes behind Johnson. Allen was no¬ 
where in sight. MacShane fed and watered his 
dogs, and rolling up in his rabbit robe was asleep 
in two minutes. When he awoke, an hour and a 
half later, both Johnson and Allen had left. John¬ 
son had rested an hour, and Allen a half-hour. 

There was no hint of snow in the air as MacShane 
headed his dogs over the back trail. Apparently 
as fresh as when he started he urged his dogs to a 
faster pace, and at Gold Run, twenty-four miles 
away, he overtook Allen. He had made the two 
hundred and thirty miles in forty-four hours flat. 
Here he learned that Johnson was an hour ahead of 
him and going strong when he pulled out of Gold 
Run. He left five minutes after his arrival, and 
once again Allen was right at his heels. MacShane 
noted that Allen had taken a dog on his sled. He 
made Haven, two hundred and sixty-six miles from 
the starting point, in fifty-eight hours and thirty-five 
minutes. The air was full of snow, and he learned 


The Alaska Sweepstakes 279 

that Johnson was only forty minutes ahead of him 
and that he, too, had taken a dog on his sled. 

As MacShane approached Death Valley Hill, the 
wind rose to almost hurricane violence, and the 
character of the snow changed from definite flakes 
to a fine powdery snow-fog that bit and stung the 
flesh of his face like a thousand needle-points. With 
the snow-fog came a drop in temperature. Mac- 
Shane’s mittens froze to the handle-bars. The dogs 
slowed to three miles an hour. There was no trail, 
and try as he would MacShane could not see his 
leader. The wind swung the sled dangerously, and 
time after time MacShane nearly lost his handle¬ 
bars. 

Suddenly Skookum stopped dead still. In vain 
MacShane yelled to urge him on. One of the new 
dogs laid down, and MacShane took him to the sled. 
He hurried to Skookum and with a hand on the 
great dog’s collar tried to start him. But the dog 
was immovable. MacShane walked ahead, and not 
ten yards away he plunged over a cliff. The fall 
of twenty or thirty feet did no more than give him 
a shaking up, as he alighted in a huge drift of the 
new-fallen snow, but it was a good half-hour before 
he managed to regain the upper level. The dogs 
had made good use of the interval and all were lying 
down in the harness. MacShane was lost! He had 
been lost a hundred times, but never before had it 
mattered. Always he had camped until the condi¬ 
tions that had caused his predicament had righted 


28 o 


North 


themselves, but now to camp meant to lose the race. 
Over and over, as he had frantically tried to scale 
the cliff, he had kept repeating to himself, “Fve got 
to win! Fve got to win,!” 

He reasoned that the trail lay to the westward, 
as the terrific wind had gradually forced them off the 
course. “Gee! Skookum! Gee!” he cried, 
“Mush-a! Mush! Hi! Mush-a! Mush-a!” This 
time the leader threw himself into the collar, and 
the whole team responded with a will. The air 
was an impenetrable wall of whirling, stinging fog, 
and gripping the handle-bars, Mac Shane urged the 
dogs on, he knew not whither. On, and on, they 
bored through the seething smother. An hour 
passed—two hours, and suddenly MacShane felt the 
sled accelerate. He quickened his pace to keep up, 
and in a few minutes more he was running! There 
was only one explanation—Skookum had found the 
trail! “Go it, Skookum! Mush-a! Mush-a!” the 
wind tore the words from his lips and buried them 
in the fog—but the dogs ran on. 

Suddenly, after hours of blind running, some¬ 
thing black loomed up close beside him. Boston 
Roadhouse! Somehow he had missed Telephone 
Creek altogether, in the storm. Here he learned 
that neither Johnson nor Allen had been heard from 
since pulling out of Haven. Neither Telephone 
Creek nor Boston Roadhouse had seen either of 
them! MacShane fed his dogs and pulled out. 
Only one hundred and seven miles to go—and he 


The Alaska Sweepstakes 281 

was leading! Of course, there was a bare possibility 
that Johnson was still ahead, but if so, he was oflF 
the trail, and would be laboring under a severe 
handicap. “It was her taking the dogs over the trail 
that did it!” muttered MacShane, as he bored on 
through the storm. “Without that Skookum would 
j‘ever have found it. She didn’t drive the race— 
but if we come in first. By God, she won it!” Two 
hours later the snow-fog lightened. MacShane 
could see all the dogs, now. It was growing colder. 
Again his muscles were tiring. The sweat was 
pouring from his body into his mukluks. He sucked 
lemons continually. Hour after hour he held the 
dogs to their work, and when he judged he had 
made twenty-five miles from Boston Roadhouse, he 
halted the team, and fed them meal and tallow. 
Here, also he pulled the other young dog out of the 
harness and replaced him with the one which had 
rested. “Only about eighty miles to go, boys!” he 
cried, after fifteen minutes of rest, “Mush-a! 
Mush-a! We’ve got to win that money!” 

When MacShane staggered into Timber on the 
tail end of the blizzard, he had made three hundred 
and forty-eight miles in seventy-four hours and 
thirty minutes, with sixty-four miles to go. 

At Timber he learned that Johnson had reported 
into Boston Roadhouse an hour and ten minutes 
after he had pulled out, and had rested two full 
hours. Allen had withdrawn from the race after 
injuring three of his dogs when his team went 


282 North 

over a cliff in the storm. He had returned to 
Haven. 

With a good three hours’ lead, MacShane slept 
for two hours and pulled out with the sun shining 
brightly. The thirty-four miles to Topkok was 
made without incident, MacShane urging his tired 
dogs, and his tired muscles to their utmost. At Top¬ 
kok he learned that Johnson, with three dogs on his 
sled was barely holding his own, an hour and a 
quarter behind. Just out of Topkok, with thirty 
miles to go—MacShane took another dog onto the 
sled. One of the big malamutes had gone lame. 
From that time on, he drove a terrific trail, forcing 
the dogs to their limit. For he knew that Johnson 
would gain, as with three dogs on the sled, he still 
had fifteen dogs in harness, while he himself, had 
but ten. 

From Topkok on, he was forced to face the wind 
which tore at his exposed face and whipped the sled 
about so that it was with the utmost difficulty he 
managed to keep it from being smashed into 
kindling wood against the telephone poles that 
flanked the trail. MacShane was running mechani¬ 
cally, taking no thought of miles. He had used the 
last of his lemons and was consumed by torturing 
thirst. The sweat squashed audibly in his mukluks, 
and he ran as in a dream. A crashing explosion 
brought him to his senses. It was the gun at Fort 
Davis that announces to the waiting thousands in 
Nome that the first racer is in sight. 


The Alaska Sweepstakes 283 

“Only four miles to go! Four miles! Four 
miles!” MacShane found himself babbling the 
words aloud. The report of the gun had put new 
life in his veins and he ran on encouraging his dogs 
to a faster pace. 

Nome! From the roofs of the buildings, from 
the cross-arms of poles men and boys cheered him 
on. As he ran down the seemingly endless street 
the crowds thickened. Black masses of howling, 
yelling people lined the sidewalks. And as he 
crossed the line the Queen of the Alaska Carnival, 
running at his side, hung a huge wreath of flowers 
about his neck. 

The great race was over. The Gordon dogs had 
won! 

“How is she?” asked MacShane, as Bill Ames, 
swearing great round, bragging oaths of pure joy, 
took over the dogs. 

“She’s cornin’ along. They tuk her to the 
horspital.” 

“Don’t tell ’em my name—any of ’em,” whis¬ 
pered MacShane, and the next moment he was gone. 


CHAPTER XXV 
HULOIMEE TILAKUM 

The Gordon dogs win! The Gordon dogs win! 
All Nome rang with the cry. Like wildfire the words 
leaped from lip to lip. 

Lying upon her bed in the hospital with eyes half 
closed, Lou Gordon heard the boom of the signal 
gun at Fort Davis. “What is it?” she asked of a 
nurse, who at the sound had taken her position at 
a window that overlooked the street. 

“It’s the gun I The first of the racers has got to 
Fort Davis! It won’t be long, now, till we hear the 
news. I’ll bet it’s John Johnson—he’s just grand! 
So big and strong. But, it might be Scotty Allen. 
He’s an awful good man on the trail, they say. I’ll 
tell you as soon as I hear.” 

On the bed, the girls eyes closed, and two big 
tears rolled down her cheeks. Other tears followed 
until two damp places appeared upon the pillow. 
Well—it would soon be over. She had been a fool 
to leave the Koyukuk. Bitterly, the panorama of 
events of the past few weeks floated through her 
brain. The high hope with which she had set out 
from the little cabin on Myrtle. • The hardships of 

284 


Huloimee Tilakum 


285 


the long snow-trail. Her joy and wonder in the 
splendors of Nome. Her meeting with The 
Stranger, and their two weeks together, during 
which life had seemed to take on new meaning for 
her. Then—the strange premonition of evil that 
came over her as she witnessed his meeting with 
Dalzene. The arrest of the father on a trumped-up 
charge. Her violent illness, by means of which the 
plotters had eliminated her from all chances of 
winning the race. And, last of all—the realization 
that there would be no money left when the bills 
were paid. She vaguely wondered if there would 
be enough to pay the bills. 

A thunderous roar of voices filled the air. 
Louder, and louder swelled the sound, until it seem.ed 
as though everybody in the world was trying to out- 
yell his neighbor. With tight-pressed lips the girl 
waited. What difference did it make who won? 
Nevertheless she found herself waiting for the 
words of the nurse. A young doctor charged into 
the room. “The Gordon dogs win!” he cried, 
“Eighty-three hours and three minutes! They all 
got lost in the blizzard-” 

Lou Gordon found herself sitting bolt upright in 
bed. What was he saying? He is crazy! Wide 
eyed she stared at the white coated figure that was 
hurrying toward her. “Lie down! Please lie 
down!” His hands were upon her shoulders trying 
to force her gently back upon the pillow. But she 
resisted his efforts. 



286 


North 


‘‘What—what did you say?” she demanded, her 
fists clenching and unclenching. 

“Oh, come now. If I had thought you would 
get so excited about it, I wouldn’t have told the 
news. But you were the only patient in the con¬ 
valescent ward, and-” 

“Tell me!’’ the girl’s voice was almost a shriek, 
“Tell me who won!’’ 

“The Gordon dogs won,” soothed the man, 
“They’re a team nobody thought had a chance. Why, 
the odds were ten-to-one against ’em.” 

The girl’s eyes slowly closed, and, she allowed 
herself to be lowered to the pillow, where for some 
moments she lay with her head in a whirl while the 
voices of the doctor and the nurse sounded very far 
away. Suddenly, she again tried to raise her¬ 
self, but the nurse held her back. “Who drove 
them?” she asked. “Tell me! Who drove my 
dogs?” 

“Your dogs?” cried the young doctor, “What 
do you mean?” 

“They’re my dogs, I tell you! I’m Lou Gordon! 
They’re my dogs! Who drove them?” 

“Oh, my God!” exclaimed the young doctor, 
“I didn’t know! Doctor Steele will murder me if 
he finds out I caused all this excitement. Oh, say, 
calm yourself. Miss Gordon! Honestly I didn’t 
know?” The man’s perturbation was so evident, 
that Lou Gordon despite her impatience, found 
herself smiling. 



Huloimee Tilakum 287 

won’t be excited any more—really. But— 
please tell me!” 

“Well, that’s just what everyone else wants to 
know,” smiled the doctor. “He’s entered as 
Hidoimee Tilakum —and that means The Stranger. 
Everyone is asking ‘Who is The Stranger?’ You 
tell me. Miss Gordon? Who is he?” 

The girl shook her head: ''Huloimee Tilakum/' 
she answered, “That’s all I know,” and struggled 
frantically to raise herself. “Go find him!” she 
cried. 

“But—I’m on duty. I-” 

“Send someone, then! Send everyone! I’ve got 
to find him. Oh, I was a fool! A fool! I’ll go 
myself! I must find him! Oh, how can I ever 
look him in the face again? But, I will find him! 
I must!” 

It took the combined efforts of the young doctor 
and the nurse to prevent the girl from leaping from 
the bed.” “I’ll go! I’ll start a search for him!” 
cried the doctor in desperation, “Only, please. Miss 
Gordon—for your own good, as well as mine— 
please be quiet. I’ll have him here in no time!” and 
with that, he was gone, as with a sigh of resignation, 
the girl sank back upon her pillow. 

Over and over she repeated the wonderful words, 
“They won! My dogs won! And, he drove them!” 
The weakness that had held her listless for three 
days was gone. She could feel the strength return¬ 
ing to her body—flowing through its fibres in a life- 



288 


North 


giving current of warmth. Her heart seemed burst¬ 
ing with happiness, and in her brain the face of 
Huloimee Tilakum shone through a chaos of whirl¬ 
ing thought. What would she say to him? What 
could she say. Would he ever forgive her? 

The young doctor appeared in the doorway. 

‘‘Where is he 1” cried the girl. 

“No one seems to have seen him since the race,” 
he explained, “but they’ll find him. I’ve got a 
dozen men hunting for him. Told ’em to comb 
Nome with a fine-tooth comb until they did find him. 
They say you’ll clean up higT 

“Oh, never mind that!” cried the girl, “Why 
doesn’t he come?” 

A form appeared in the doorway behind the 
doctor, and the bluff voice o^ Bill Ames rang 
through the room: “They win. Miss Gordon! I 
know’d they could do it!” 

At the words the youthful physician whirled on 
the speaker: “Get out of here!” he ordered, “How 
in the devil did you get through the office?’” 

“Let him come!” cried Lou Gordon, “Come, Mr. 
Ames, tell me all about it!” 

“It’s against the rules!” vociferated the doctor, 
barring the way, and the next moment the strong 
arm of Bill Ames was brushing him aside. 

“That’s what they claimed down stairs,” quoth 
Bill, as he stepped into the room, “An’ if you don’t 
shut up yer pesterin’ young feller, I’ll jist nach’lly 
pick you up an’ chuck you through that winder, sash 


Huloimee Tilakum 


289 


an’ all,” and, without, further adoo, he advanced to 
the girl’s bed, his peg leg loudly tapping the floor. 

“I know’d you’d want to hear about it, so I 
come-” 

“But, where is he —Huloimee Tilakum inter¬ 
rupted the girl. 

The grin broadened on the face of Bill Ames: 
“Oh, him—I guess he’s poundin’ his ear, some- 
wheres. Eighty-three hours on the trail, an’ part of 
it through a blizzard, calls fer a good long sleep. He 
was wobblin’ when he crossed the finish line. They 
hung the big wreath on his neck, an’ do you know 
what he done? He tore it off an’ hung it on the 
neck of that there Skookum dog! That’s what he 
done! An’ By God, Miss Gordon, that’s what I call 
a man! Givin’ the dogs the credit. Tt was the 
Skookum dog done it,’ he says to me, after he’d 
axed how was you gittin’ on, ‘The lead dog, an’ the 
gal that had sense enough to run ’em over the trail. 
We was lost,’ he says, ‘An’ that Skookum dog found 
the trail because he’s .be’n over it.’ Them’s the 
words he says to me, an’ then he was gone. The 
best team won. Miss Gordon—an’ the best man won. 
An’ now all Alasky is wonderin’ who is he? Why, 
they ain’t sayin’ ‘Hello,’ no more, down there in the 
streets, nor ‘How be you?’ It’s who the hell is 
Huloimee Tilakum f But, they won’t never find out 
from me-” 

“Do you know?” cried the girl, half rising from 
her pillow, “Tell me! Do you know^” 


19 




290 


North 


‘Who—me?” exclaimed Bill Ames, “Not me, 
Miss Gordon. I don’t know nothin’ about nothin’! 
Honest I don’t. I never seen him or heerd tell of 
him till you brung him to the corral that day! So 
long, Miss Gordon! I gotta go!” And without 
waiting for another word. Bill Ames vanished from 
the room as swiftly as his peg leg would permit. 

Down in the jail they rimmed Old Man Gordon’s 
cell demanding to know who drove the Gordon 
dogs. The old man paused long enough in his 
denunciation of the police, the court, and all Nome 
in general, to roar his answer at them: “My 
daughter drove ’em! Con blast ye! That’s the 
breed of us Koyukukers! Our women over there 
can beat the best mushers ye got! ’Twas my wee 
lass of a daugther that won ye’re race!” 

“Hell of a lookin’ daughter!” exclaimed a man in 
the crowd, “You ort to saw him hurlin’ them dogs 
down the street to the finish, an’ all Nome lookin’ 
on an’ yellin’ their head off! Believe me, old timer! 
It was a he-man won that race!” 

That very day they turned Gordon loose with 
apologies so evidently sincere that the old man’s 
ruffled temper was completely mollified. For, upon 
further questioning the Indian admitted that 
Dalzene, and not Gordon had furnished the hooch. 
Whereupon Dalzene was apprehended and promptly 
sentenced to six months at hard labor. 

The following day Lou Gordon was discharged 
from the hospital. During the week which they 


Huloimee Tilakum 


291 


remained at the hotel for the girl to fully regain 
her strength both she and her father used every 
means at their command to locate the mysterious 
Huloimee Tilakum. But all to no purpose. The 
man had seemingly vanished from the face of the 
earth. In the prosecution of this search, Bill Ames 
was her most indefatigable henchman. Try as she 
would, the girl could not rid herself of the impres¬ 
sion that the dog keeper knew more than he would 
tell. But despite her utmost endeavors to extract 
information, the man denied all knowledge of the 
vanished Stranger. And, even as he lied, nobly 
and desperately. Bill Ames silently cursed himself 
for promising silence, and bitterly he cursed 
MacShane for the fool he was. For he guessed 
rightly that no aftermath of her recent illness had 
caused the girl suddenly to lose all interest in life. 
He knew that she loved her dogs—knew her pride 
in them. And he knew that she should have thrilled 
to the heart at the vociferously expressed admira¬ 
tion of the crowds that came daily to visit those dogs 
in the corral. And knowing these things he cursed 
mightily under his breath as he watched her gaze 
upon these men in dull apathy, her eyes searching, 
always searching for a face that was not there. 

As the miserable week wore to its close hope 
died within the girl’s breast, for even the indefatiga¬ 
ble Bill Ames was at last forced to admit that 
Huloimee Tilakum was no longer in Nome. 

^‘He has gone—gone,” she murmured to herself, 


292 


North 


as she stared wide-eyed into the darkness of her 
room upon her last night in the hotel. ‘^And—it’s 
all my fault! Oh, how could I have been such a 
fool ? He is a man! The best man in all the world! 
I love him! I do love him! And—he has—gone I” 
Then the tears came, and for a long time the sound 
of muffled sobbing penetrated the darkness of the 
room. 


CHAPTER XXVI 
EYES IN THE DARK 


/ 


Back on the Koyukuk the nightless summer . 
dragged wearily to its close for Lou Gordon. 
Father and daughter had been given an 'ovation in 
Nolan upon their return from Nome. It was a 
great moment in the little Arctic camp, when Lou 
Gordon placed in the hands of Clem Wilcox bank 
drafts totaling in the neighborhood of one hundred 
thousand dollars for distribution among the men 
who had backed her dogs to win. 

Instead of reviving her spirits, the long homeward 
journey had served only to increase the aching void 
in her breast. Even the gala day that celebrated 
their arrival in Nolan failed to arouse any enthu¬ 
siasm in her heart, and in the little cabin on Myrtle 
she took up her round of duties as one assumes 
drudgery. 

In July, when the little shallow-draught steamer 
transferred Old Man Gordon’s “bi’ler,” to a waiting 
flat boat at Betties, all Nolan turned out and man- 
hauled the ponderous piece of freight up a hundred 
miles of shallow water and set it in place on the 
Gordon claim. 


293 


294 


North 


‘‘Fli show ye!” the old man had prophesied when 
he thanked them for their help, ‘‘Ye’d better stay 
an’ fix up yer old cabins. For, ye’ll all be back on 
Myrtle in the spring!” 

And the men of Nolan laughed, and returned up 
river. 

And now, as the days grew short, and the nights 
long, and the sting of frost was in the air. Old Man 
Gordon, with a huge pile of wood ready to hand, 
waited impatiently for the coming of the cold that 
would allow him to steam his way into the iron 
hard gravel of the creek. 

Snow covered the land—and more snow. Lou 
Gordon broke puppies, shot caribou, and hauled the 
carcasses to the meat cache. But there was no joy 
in the work. Life had lost its zest. Living had 
become simply the mechanical doing of things that 
had to be done. 

One day in December she stood upon a long 
treeless ridge at noontime and, with her eyes fixed 
on the southern horizon, watched for the appearance 
of the sun. Yesterday only half his diameter had 
appeared for a few minutes above the horizon, 
and today the girl knew she would catch the last 
glimpse of his face for many long weeks to come. 
Overhead a few of the brighter stars glowed feebly 
through the pink radiance of the noonday dawn. 

Gradually the rose-pink of the heavens deepened 
upon the southern horizon. Alternating bands of 
pink and lavender shot upward in ever widening 


295 


Eyes in the Dark 

bands that paled and merged as they approached the 
zenith. With startling swiftness the colors in¬ 
tensified, the bands of pink becoming, in the twin¬ 
kling of an eye, bands of flaming crimson, and the 
lavender giving place to banners of purest purple. 
For many minutes Lou Gordon gazed upon the 
wonderful pageant of color. The red disk of the 
sun appeared above the horizon, and the next instant 
his yellow rays touched the glittering ice peaks with 
an auriole of golden glory. Only for a few moments 
was the segment of his disk visible, as it traveled 
its foreshortened arc—and was gone. The panorama 
of color reversed, and in the deepening twilight the 
big stars glowed in wan radiance. 

It is an impressive sight, that swan song of the 
sun—that riot of flashing brilliance—that spectacular 
pomp of flaming color with which he bids the 
frozen world good night. One last blaze of glory 
to delight the eyes of the dwellers of the drear lone 
land of snow. For, until his next appearance, the 
land within the Circle is a dead land of black and 
white. Timber, cabins, animals, people that come 
within the short range of vision all appear a uniform 
dead black, against the cold dead whiteness of snow 
and ice. 

Every winter when the heavens had been clear 
enough to permit it, Lou Gordon had taken her 
leave of the sun from this same bare ridge, and 
always the grand symphony of color tones had 
stirred her to the uttermost fibre of her being, 


296 


North 


stirred her to the very soul, heartened her for the 
long, long night. But, on this day there was no 
answering response in her heart. The sun, giver of 
light, and life, and warmth, had blazed his farewell 
from the rim of the world, and was gone. The 
North lay dead, as her heart was dead. Except 
that for the North, there would be an awakening. 

She, too, had had her little day of glory. Two 
short weeks of wonderful pulsing life. Love had 
stirred her heart with the wonderful symphony of 
his song. Then the sun of love had set, and the 
world was black, and white, and toneless. 

With a dull pain gnawing at her heart, the girl 
turned her back upon the southern horizon, spoke 
to her dogs, and wearily descended the ridge into 
the narrow valley of Myrtle. 

The strong cold descended upon the land. Myrtle 
creek froze to the bottom, burst its ice bond, and 
froze again. The breath snapped and crackled as 
it left the lips, and men forsook the trails. 

Then it was that Old Man Gordon’s “b’iler” froze 
to its very vitals. For four weeks he had managed, 
by firing night and day, to keep ^steam in her, but 
as the strong cold gripped the land, it gripped the 
boiler, too. Unprotected by any building it froze 
with the fire roaring in the fire-box, and stood out 
under the glittering stars, a black and useless thing 
of iron. 

With the failure of his boiler Old Man Gordon 
lost his grip on life. In vain Lou tried to arouse 


297 


Eyes in the Dark 

him to return to his wood thawing. But, the old 
man merely shook his head and sat staring through 
the hours of unchanging dark, into the little squares 
of light that showed at the draught holes of the 
stove. 

December passed into January of the worst winter 
the Koyukuk had ever experienced. Furious 
blizzards followed upon the heels of the strong 
cold, and the strong cold upon the heels of the 
blizzards. Snow piled to unprecedented depths, and 
all trails were hopelessly buried. 

Not until the second week in January did Lou 
Gordon become really alarmed about her father. 
The hours when she was not busy with her dogs 
she spent in reading, and in trying to awaken the 
old man from the apathy into which he had fallen. 
His appetite had dwindled until he was eating almost 
nothing. He rarely spoke, merely answering the 
girFs questions with a nod, or a shake of the head. 

Then came a day when she returned from the dog 
kennels to find the cabin empty. Her father’s 
mukluks and parka, and his heavy mittens were 
not on their accustomed place. She breathed a sigh 
of relief. At last he had taken interest in life. 
Removing her outer gear, she built up the fire, and 
settled herself to read. An hour later she laid down 
her book, and leaped to her feet with a start. Where 
was her father? A sudden fear gripped her, a 
nameless terror that struck a chill to her very heart. 
It was one of the coldest days of the winter. The 


298 


North 


thermometer recorded sixty-six below zero. And 
for weeks he had hardly touched his food! Franti¬ 
cally she drew on her heavy clothing, and dashed 
out into the gloom. Tracks led toward the boiler, 
whose iron side showed gaunt and black on the bank 
of the creek above the rim of a huge snowdrift. 
The wind, swirling and eddying about it had 
whipped the ground bare of snow and left the 
hideous black shape in the center of a pit. 

Upon the edge of the surrounding drift the girl 
paused and stared down into this cavity. Before the 
open door of the fire-box crouched the figure of 
her father, barely distinguishable in the darkness. 
She called loudly, but there was no response—not 
so much as a turning of the head. And with a low 
cry of terror she leaped into the pit and stooped 
over the crouching figure. One glance into the 
marble-white face, that showed above the grizzled 
beard, one grip upon the iron hard shoulder that 
resisted the clutch of her mittened fingers, and she 
drew swiftly back. For a full minute she stood 
stunned, her hands pressing her breast, her eyes 
closed. Then with tight-pressed lips, she returned 
slowly to the cabin and harnessed her dogs. 

It required two hours of hard labor to remove 
the frozen body to the cabin, and two days of thaw¬ 
ing beside the roaring stove before the doubled 
limbs could be straightened—days during which 
Lou Gordon returned to the cabin only to wait for 
her gravel-thawing fire to eat into the adamantine 


Eyes in the Dark 


299 


ground. Close beside the grave of her mother, she 
was burning in for this new grave. Side by side 
they should lie deep in the eternal frost, their bodies 
preserved without decay until the end of time. 
Bravely, in dry-eyed silence she worked, and made 
no plan for the future. 

A journey to Nolan for assistance in her grew- 
some labor was out of the question. Sled travel in 
the deep loose snow was impossible, and she had no 
toboggan. So she worked alone. When the body 
had thawed, she straightened the limbs, folded the 
hands upon the breast, and wrapping it tightly in a 
wet blanket, removed it to the wood-shed, where 
the strong cold converted the blanket into a shroud 
of iron. 

It took two weeks to burn into the gravel and 
when the grave was finished, the girl lowered the 
body gently to the bottom by means of a doubled 
babiche line. Then she carefully filled the grave, 
and erected a small wooden cross, into which she 
laboriously burned a simple inscription, with the 
point of a red hot spike. Then she retired to the 
cabin and, throwing herself upon her bunk, gave 
way to an uncontrollable fit of sobbing. That night 
the strong cold again gave way before a howling 
blizzard, and in the morning when she fed her dogs 
the little wooden cross was buried under a pure white 
mantle of snow^ 

Days passed, days hardly distinguishable from the 
darkness of night. A grey cloud-bank overhung 


300 


North 


the Koyuktik, lowering and sullen and heavily 
burdened with snow, obscuring even the dim twilight 
of high noon. And with the passing of the days 
a deep melancholy settled itself upon the girl. In 
vain she tried to interest herself in her books, and 
the twice read magazines. But it was no use. A 
great weight seemed pressing upon her, smothering 
her. Her head felt strange, and sleep came only 
in short, dream-troubled snatches. Mechanically she 
attended to her simple duties, fed her dogs, and 
carried wood from the wood house. 

Each day was exactly like the preceding day, and 
the nights were the same as the days. The eyes of 
the dogs glowed like live coals as she moved among 
them in the darkness. There was something 
sinister—evil, in the greenish glint of these eyes 
that were always upon her. Why had she never 
noticed it before? Why did they glare at her out 
of the unending night? Twenty-one dogs out there 
in the dark—forty-two eyes! Eyes in the dark! 
Always eyes! Staring eyes! Elashing eyes! And 
eyes that glowed with sullen malevolence! Like the 
eyes of Dalzene! That was it, the eyes of Dalzene 
—flashing with hate, when he had threatened her in 
the roadhouse at Nolan. Glowing with smouldering 
hate when he passed her that day upon the trail near 
Soloman. Vividly the words of the man flashed 
through her brain: “Myrtle’s played out an’ dead.” 
Yes, Myrtle is dead—dead and forgotten—and the 
boiler is dead—and her father is dead—^and her 


301 


Eyes in the Dark 

mother—all—all dead—dead and gone—and for¬ 
gotten, as Dalzene had said. 

With a shudder she recalled the leering glint of 
his eyes as he had begged her to throw in with him, 
“We’ll go where we kin have some fun—down on 
the Yukon, or over to Nome, that’s where the bright 
lights is.” The bright lights! Well, she had seen 
the bright lights—had basked in their brilliance. For 
two never-to-be-forgotten weeks she had lived. 

And she recalled the terrible gleam in his eyes 
as he had uttered his threat: “Time will come when 
you will talk to Jake Dalzene—an’ talk pretty! 
Time will come when you’ll learn that Jake Dalzene 
don’t never fergit!” And his eyes had gleamed— 
like the eyes of the dogs in the dark. 

That day, when she fed the dogs, she cast fearful, 
nervous glances behind her into the gloom. And, 
that night she took Skookum with her into the 
cabin. That night, also she cleaned and oiled her 
rifle, filled its magazine with cartridges, and stood 
it in the corner nearest her bunk. 

Skookum was restless. Never before had he 
slept in a cabin, and all night long he dozed fitfully, 
awaking at short intervals with a start, to walk about 
the room. The click of his toe nails upon the floor 
awoke the girl, and each time she stirred in her bed 
the great dog would look toward her—two eyes 
that glowed in the dark. And, with a shudder she 
would turn her face to the wall—but not to sleep. 

Cold fear gripped her heart. She would hit out 


302 


North 


for Nolan. Dalzene would never dare to show his 
face in Nolan. Tomorrow she would harness her 
dogs and hit the trail. But—she had no toboggan, 
and in the deep loose snow, the sled would be useless. 
No, she must stay here on Myrtle until the thaw 
came and hardened the surface of the snow. If she 
couldn’t travel, Dalzene couldn’t travel either. But 
—Dalzene had a toboggan! Pete Enright had told 
her of how the man had shifted to a toboggan and 
given them the slip below Betties! She must go— 
somewhere. Dalzene would be out of jail. His 
time should have expired sometime last fall. He 
had had six months in which to nurse his hate, and 
to plot and plan, and three or four months since in 
which to carry out his plans. Dalzene never for¬ 
gets! Even now he might be on Myrtle, trailing 
through the snow with a toboggan. There was the 
rifle. If Dalzene came she would kill him. Or, kill 
herself. Ah, that is it—no more darkness, no more 
gleaming eyes. No more fighting the dull pain that 
seemed weighting—always weighting her down. 
One quick flash, and then—oblivion. Sleep. For¬ 
ever and forever—sleep. No eyes staring, glaring 
at her from the outer dark. No more fear of 
Dalzene. Myrtle is dead. Coldfoot is dead. Every¬ 
thing—everything is dead. They would bury her 
beside her father and her mother—the men of Nolan, 
when they found her in the spring—and she could 
sleep. And he would never know. Toiling, delving, 
far in the high North for his red gold he would 


303 


Eyes in the Dark 

never know that she wanted him. That for weeks 
and for months her soul had been calling, calling to 
his soul. He would never know that her heart 
cried out to him in the bright summer midnight, and 
in the darkness of the eternal winter night. Had 
he forgotten her ? Some day he would find his red 
gold, and then—But, here on Myrtle she would be 
sleeping the long, long sleep. 

Slowly her hand felt along the wall, nearer and 
nearer the corner, closer and closer it drew to the 
black barrel of the rifle. Her groping fingers reached 
it, and with a short, quick cry she drew them away 
from the icy coldness of its touch. In the darkness 
Skookum bounded to her side, and his warm red 
tongue brushed her cheek. Life! Splendid, pulsing 
life was in the two great bounds that had carried him 
to her side! Slowly the girl closed her eyes. He, too, 
was alive. He would never run away from it all. 
He would never seek the long, long sleep. He would 
live! Live and beat down the thing that was con¬ 
quering him! For eight years alone he had been 
fighting the North. And he would win 1 He would 
laugh at the North, even as he gouged the red gold 
from its bosom! And she, too, would laugh at 
the North! With startling distinctness, the image 
of Huloimee Tilakiim rose before her. Tall and 
straight, with the lithe easy movement of rugged 
strength he stood before her. He was smiling, 
the illusive, half-smile that barely curved his lips, 
but radiated a little fan of wrinkles from the corners 


304 


North 


of his eyes» And those eyesl The blue-grey eyes 
were looking directly into hers—intense, piercing— 
devouring. Straight into her heart they looked, and 
all unconsciously they were telling her what his lips 
had never told! Lou Gordon sat bolt upright and 
her two arms flew about Skookum’s great neck. 
“Fm coming! Fm coming! Hiiloimee Tilakum! 
In your eyes I have seen it— love! Oh, I am coming 
to you—my love. Into the far North—beyond the 
timber—beyond men—we two!” She was sobbing 
aloud, and the words were pouring from her lips 
into the great lead dog’s ears. “We will go to him, 
Skookum. Just as soon as the thaw makes travel 
possible. We will hunt for him on the Colville! 
And we will And him. And together we will find 
his red gold! Myrtle is dead, but we are alive, 
Skookum—alive! And way in the white land 
beyond the mountains we will live, and love, and 
find gold—red gold. In his eyes I have read it! 
Not once but many times! But—I did not know 
—then! Eyes, Skookum—never again will we be 
afraid of the eyes in the dark!” 


CHAPTER XXVII 

THE WORTH OF GOLD 

Way down North, where the ice-locked Colville 
winds its way to the frozen sea, Burr MacShane 
sat upon the floor of his igloo and stared at the 
pile of red gold he had heaped onto a square of 
canvas. Beside him were many empty caribou- 
skin sacks. Slowly he thrust his fingers into the 
yellow-red pile, working them into the heavy metal 
until his hand was buried to the wrist. 

Very deliberately he blew a cloud of blue smoke 
ceilingward. “ Ts it worth it?’ she asked, that day 
on the trail, ‘Up here we are missing—life.’ An’ 
I said I didn’t know, an’ that if I found out I would 
tell her the answer.” He withdrew his hand from 
the golden pile and meticulously tamped the ashes 
into the bowl of his pipe. 

The petrol lamp sputtered and its flame grew dull. 
MacShane rose, filled the lamp, and stepping to 
the door stared out into the Arctic gloom. Then 
he returned to his seat on the floor. “Nothin’ but 
cold, an’ darkness, an’ snow, an’ ice, an’ damned 
bare peaks—an’ gold. Twenty-five years at it— 
twenty-five years fillin’ stinkin’ lamps, an’ cookin’ 

305 


20 


306 


North 


dog-feed, an’ gougin’ gravel, an’ fightin’ the cold, 
an’ what have I got to show for it? Gold! Yellow 
dirt! The chips in the game! You can’t eat it. 
You can’t wear it. It ain’t worth a damn until it’s 
traded for somethin’ else. An’ what have I ever 
traded it for—grub, an’ petrol, an’ clothing, an’ dogs, 
an’ powder—so I could go an’ get more gold! I’ve 
played the game for twenty-five years, an’ I’ve got 
a lot of chips stacked up. I’ve hit the trail when 
other men holed up, an’ I’ve lived when they died like 
flies. I’ve beat the damned North! It’s played all 
its cards, an’ it’s through. It’s tried to freeze me 
with its strong cold—an’ it couldn’t. It’s tried to 
starve me in its barrens, an’ drown me in its rivers, 
an’ drive me mad with its silence, an’ its darkness, 
an’ its flashin’ aurora. It’s done its damndest 
—an’ I’ve laughed at the worst it could do! It 
fought for its gold, but I beat it—an’ ripped the 
gold from the guts of its creeks. Twenty-five years 
—livin’ like an Eskimo—like a dog—an’ all for little 
sacks of yellow dirt hid away in iron safes! 

“ Ts it worth it?’ she asked. I didn’t know, then. 
But, I know—now. I promised to tell her the 
answer. It took me quite a while to learn it. A 
man can beat the North. But he can’t beat—love. 
Yes—that’s what it is— love. There ain’t no use 
of a man’s chasin’ the devil around the stump tryin’ 
to fool himself. He might as well come right out 
with it. Bill Ames was right. I wonder how the 
hell he knew? I didn’t know, myself—then. Bill’s 


The Worth of Gold 


307 


smarter than he looks to be. What Fd ought to 
done the minute I saw her there on the trail, was to 
swing my dogs around an’ head ’em hell bent back 
into the North—^then I could have gone on for 
twenty-five more years pilin’ up my foolish gold. 
But—God, Fm glad I didn’t!” 

Very deliberately Burr MacShane refilled the 
caribou-skin sacks from the yellow-red pile on the 
canvas. When he had finished, he put a huge batch 
of dog feed to cook, and then, methodically, he 
moved about the little igloo selecting various articles 
which he made up into a trail pack. “You’re a fool 1” 
warned an inner voice, “She thinks you poisoned 
her. She hates you.” 

MacShane argued aloud: “She knows better, by 
now.” 

“But, she don’t love you.” 

“Maybe not—but, she will. Sometimes, in her 
eyes, I could see—they glowed sort of soft, an’ 
dark, an’ dreamy. Damn it! Bill Ames said she 
would—an’ he ought to know!” 

“But, there’s red gold in the gravel. You haven’t 
scratched it yet.” 

“To hell with the red gold! I found it, didn’t I? 
It is there—just as I figured it.” 

“You haven’t taken out your thousand dollars to 
the pan, yet.” 

“If I get her—she’ll weigh up a million to the 
pan.” 

The inner voice was persistent: “You’ll be tied 


3 o 8 


North 


down. What’ll you do when the long trail calls? 

There will be times when you will want to roam. 

“God, ain’t I roamed enough? But, if the long 
trail calls, we’ll harness the dogs an’ roam double.” 

“It’s only February. The snow is deep. Wait 
till spring.” 

‘T’ve waited too long, now. It seems like—I can 
hear her callin’ me. An’ I ain’t seen the snow in 
twenty-five years that could stop me—with a 
toboggan.” 

His trail pack made up, MacShane sat beside the 
stove and smoked until his dog food had cooked, and 
when it was done he lashed it onto his toboggan and 
harnessed his dogs. 

“Wait till tomorrow,” urged the inner voice, “It’s 
nearly midnight.” 

“Midnight, or noon, what’s the difference in this 
God-forsaken land? It’s all dark, anyhow. You 
might as well shut up. You lose. My hunch says 
‘go now!’ An’ I’m ridin’ my hunch.” 

At Shungnak where MacShane arrived four days 
later, he entered the saloon where a dozen men were 
assembled. “If you want to go where you can shovel 
more gold out of the gravel in a day than you can 
here in a year, just follow my back trail,” he 
announced. “It’s red gold—under the big rock slide 
west of the igloo. There’s a stove an’ considerable 
grub an’ some robes left in the igloo, an’ a good 
sled, an’ a half a ton of powder. You’re welcome 
to ’em if you want ’em. But you better hit out 


The Worth of Gold 309 

before my trail snows under or you’ll never find 
it.” 

The men looked at each other, and grinned. “No, 
thanks, Stranger, we don’t like gravel as rich as all 
that. It’s too heavy to shovel.” 

The witticism of the miner produced its roar of 
laughter, and MacShane shrugged, indifferently: 
“All right, boys, don’t hurt your backs none. So 
long.” 

“Who is he ?” asked someone, when the door had 
closed behind MacShane. 

The proprietor answered: “Oh, he’s be’n up on 
the Colville fer years, proddin’ around in the gravel. 
He’s be’n there too long. They git that way after a 
while. He wouldn’t even come after his own grub. 
Used to send the Kobuks for it. The only times I 
ever see him was when he went down to Nome last 
spring, an’ when he come back. He was batty then. 
Bet agin John Johnson’s dogs, even money, an’ then 
bet on them Gordon dogs. I give him ten-to-one, an’ 
he took two hundred of it. When he came back 
through, he stopped in for to get his dust. I guess 
it was more gold than he ever seen before or heard 
tell of, an’ now he thinks he’s shovelled it out of the 
gravel.” 

“Don’t know as he was so damn batty—bettin’ on 
them Gordon dogs,” opined the man who objected to 
heavy gravel, “They win, didn’t they?” 

“Sure they win, all right. But, it was a fool bet, 
at that. Who the hell ever heard of them dogs?” 


310 


North 


“Maybe he had.*’ 

“Hell! He didn’t even know they was a race! 
An’ way up where he hung out he couldn’t hear 
nothin’ about nothin’.” 

“Maybe it was a hunch. A man ought to ride 
a hunch. I’ve got a kind of a hunch I’d maybe 
ought to hit out on his back trail. He might not be 
so damn batty. An’ I never seen no red gold.” 

The proprietor grinned: “That’s what folks 
always does when they make a big strike—go off an’ 
leave it, an’ tell the first bunch of strangers right 
where to go an’ locate it. This here specimen made 
his real good by colorin’ it red. I guess your hunch 
ain’t workin’ very strong, an’ I got one that beats it 
all to hell. It says we ort to start a game of stud.” 

The miner laughed: “You win,” he agreed, 
“Your hunch is strongest. Let’s ride it!” 

Out on the trail MacShane grinned as he mushed 
up the Kobuk. “The only stampede I ever tried to 
start—an’ she fizzled. Men are fools!” 

Instead of following down the Alatna to its mouth 
and up the Koyukuk, he cut northeastward across the 
heads of John River, Wild Creek, and North Fork, 
and two weeks later struck Myrtle Creek almost at its 
headwaters, and swung his dogs down stream. One 
after another he passed the deserted cabins that told 
the story of the creek’s abandonment. What if the 
Gordons had gone, too? It was slow trailing, and 
he was very tired. The short noonday twilight had 
faded into night, and overhead the stars twinkled in 



The Worth of Gold 


311 

cold brilliance. He knew he ought to camp, but 
doggedly pushed on. An hour later as he rounded 
a bend a dull square of light showed through the 
frosted pane of a cabin. MacShane’s heart was 
pounding wildly as he urged on his dogs. It was the 
Gordon claim! There, rearing its black bulk out of 
the snow, was a boiler. But—it was cold! The door 
of the cabin opened, and MacShane paused as his 
eyes drank in the figure of the girl who stood framed 
in the doorway. It was she—the one woman in all 
the world—his woman! She was peering at him 
through the gloom. The next instant the door closed 
with a bang. The figure was gone. 

MacShane frowned. Why was the boiler cold? 
Where was Gordon? And why had the girl 
slammed the door? The hospitality of the people of 
the Koyukuk was proverbial throughout all the 
North. 

Slowly he advanced to the door. Should he call to 
her ? Should he tell her who he was ? And why he 
had come? He paused before the closed door. No, 
not yet, he decided. Then, purposely gruffening his 
voice, he called, loudly. 

With the coming of February Lou Gordon com¬ 
pleted her plan for the future. As soon as the 
spring thaws hardened the surface of the snow she 
would hit the trail—the long trail to the unknown 
Colville, and there, somewhere in those Arctic 
wastes she would find Hiiloimee Tilakum, Oh, why 


312 


North 


had she not interpreted the look she had often 
surprised in his eyes? Why had she remained blind 
to its meaning? She knew, now. There, in the night 
it had come to her—the night she had reached for 
her rifle—to be rid, forever, of the eyes that glowed 
in the dark. And there, in the high North, they two 
should find life—life, and love, and happiness. 

She would sell her dogs in Betties—all but the 
twelve great race dogs which she would keep for a 
trail team. And then she would hit straight up the 
Alatna, and cross to the Kobuk, and there she would 
find the Eskimos who had carried the supplies to 
Htdoimee Tilakum through the long years of his 
exile in the land of red gold. 

If only Dalzene had forgotten her. Maybe he 
would not dare to risk a trip to Myrtle even for 
the purpose of carrying out his threat, when he 
knew that the hand of every man upon the Koyukuk 
was against him. But, she dismissed this hope, as 
she recalled the terrible gleam of his eyes as the 
threat was uttered. No, Dalzene would come— 
sometime. She prayed that his coming should be 
delayed until after the snow hardened in the spring. 
But, Dalzene had a toboggan! 

One evening soon after she had returned from 
feeding her dogs the sound of a voice startled her. 
It was a man urging on tired dogs. Stepping to 
the doorway she peered into the gloom. There he 
stood upon the creek, looking at her. For a long 
moment she scrutinized him as well as the starlight 


The Worth of Gold 


313 


would permit. He was a bearded man. His 
shoulders drooped slightly. He was tired. He had 
come from the direction of Nolan, but he was no 
man of Nolan, that she knew. Nor was it Dalzene. 
She would instantly have recognized the burly form 
of the hooch-runner. Who was he? And why did 
he stand and stare at her without speaking. Pos¬ 
sibly, some confederate of Dalzene, who had been 
sent ahead to see if the coast were clear. Dalzene 
would not risk his life lightly. With terror in her 
heart she slammed the door, and shot the heavy bar 
that she had contrived after the death of her father. 
Then, rifle in hand she seated herself on the edge of 
her bunk, and waited. 

The man was approaching the door. She could 
hear his footsteps crunching the packed snow. The 
footsteps ceased and a moment later a voice called 
from the darkness: 

“Hello, in there! Can I stop for the night ?” 

For a moment the girl hesitated, but only for a 
moment. Flere was a trail-weary man, stumbling in 
the night upon the only cabin on the whole creek that 
afforded warmth and comfort, and she must refuse 
him! Outside, the man awaited his reply, and with 
an effort the girl steeled herself to violate tradition 
and deny him the comfort he asked. 

“No. Pm sorry, but—Pm all alone. My father 
—isn't here." Instantly she regretted the words. 
What if the man were a confederate of Dalzene, 
and Dalzene should find that she was alone? “I—I 


314 


North 


expect him back anytime,” she added, as an after¬ 
thought. ^‘You can camp in the wood house. It 
is dry in there, and sheltered from the wind.” 

“Thanks,” answered the voice, “I will.” 

She heard his footsteps recede from the cabin, a 
few moments elapsed and she heard his voice urging 
the dogs up the slope from the creek. Later she 
breathed against a frost-coated pane of the window, 
and when a tiny spot had cleared, she peeped out. 
The man was carrying an armful of spruce boughs 
into the wood house. He returned for another huge 
armful which he spread on top of the snow upon the 
sheltered side of the building for his dogs. “No 
friend of Dalzene would do that!” exclaimed the 
girl, under her breath, and turning to the stove, she 
slipped a caribou steak into the frying pan, and 
brewed a pot of strong tea. When the steak was 
done, she took the pan and the teapot and opening 
the door called to the man: “Here is some tea, and 
steak. Better get them while they’re hot!” And, 
as his figure emerged from the wood house, she 
once more slammed the door. She heard him come 
for the food, and return to the wood house. Then 
she blew out her lamp and went to bed, with her 
rifle within reach of her hand. 

When she awoke next morning and once more 
cleared a space on the pane and looked out the man 
had gone. She could see his trail where it led off 
down the creek. 

After breakfast she fed her dogs and as she re- 


The Worth of Gold 


315 


turned from the corral was attracted by the peculiar 
actions of Skookum, who was rushing into the wood 
house and out again, with short dashes down the 
trail of the departed traveler, evincing evidences of 
excitement and delight. He bounded to her side, 
looked into her face, and again raced off to the wood 
house. What did it mean? Skookum was no fool 
puppy to caper about in this manner. He was the 
most sedate and indifferent of dogs. Half in won¬ 
der the girl followed him to the wood house, where 
she found him sniffing about the pile of boughs upon 
which the man had made his bed. A little square 
of white paper attracted her attention. It was a 
page torn from a small note book and pinned to the 
wood house door by means of a sliver. There was 
pencil writing upon the paper, and carrying it into 
the cabin she held it close to the lamp, and began 
to read the awkwardly scribbled words. But, at 
the first sentence a cry escaped her lips, as with 
trembling fingers she turned the scrap of paper over 
and stared at the signature. For a moment she 
stood motionless her face paling and flushing as the 
hot blood surged from her wildly pounding heart. 
Turning the paper her eyes devoured the words in 
feverish haste: 

‘"You asked me on Death Valley Hill if the gold was 
worth what it cost to get it. And if we wasn’t missing 
life up here. I know the answer now, and Tve come to 
tell you. I don’t aim to stay around while your father 


North 


316 

is away. When he comes home HI come back. Maybe 
both of us are tired missing life” 

The last word was heavily underscored, and at 
the bottom of the paper were the words ''Huloimee 
Tilakum/' 

With a wild, sobbing cry, the girl crushed the 
paper in her palm and thrust it into the bosom of 
her shirt. The next moment she was fastening on 
her snowshoes, and shutting Skookum in the cabin, 
she struck off down the creek, following the tobog¬ 
gan trail that was but a few hours old. 

'‘He came to me! He came to me!” over and over 
she repeated the words as her feet fairly flew over 
the snow. “He came to me—and I didn't know 
him! It was his beard! He does love me. We 
neither of us knew it, then. We were like little 
children groping in the dark. He will camp at the 
cabin eight miles down—waiting for dad to come 
home. Poor old dad, he’s home, now—and happy. 
And I will be happy, oh, so happy—with him! We 
will both be happy, and together we can laugh at 
the long night, and the strong cold. She paused 
abruptly and glanced back. “What if he should go 
on to Betties? A hundred miles, and I haven’t a 
bite to eat nor a blanket!” She smiled, and re¬ 
sumed her pace. “I can overtake him. He has got 
to break trail for his dogs.” 

Rounding a sharp bend of the creek she came 
face to face with a dog outfit, mushing up stream. 


The Worth of Gold 


317 


The outfit halted and two men stood staring at her. 
And in that instant the blocKi froze in her veins. 
The larger of the two was Jake Dalzene! And he 
was eyeing her with a fatuous, grinning leer. The 
eyes of his companion were harder—frankly ap¬ 
praising. 


CHAPTER XXVIII 

SUNRISE 

here you be, my pretty!” cried Dalzene. 
‘‘Come down to meet me did ye ?” The man’s voice 
was thick of utterance. He was drunk. 

Instantly the girl gained control of herself: 
“Stand out of my way! Let me pass!” 

The man laughed coarsely: “Haw, haw, haw! 
Pretty sassy, hain’t you? Well, you won’t be so 
sassy agin you’ve had a chance to learn my ways.” 

Swiftly the girl’s eyes surveyed the creek bed. 
The banks were high and steep. The man divined 
her intention: “No ye don’t! No use tryin’ to 
slip by us. Turn around an head back up the crick. 
I’ve got some business with yer pa—an’ later with 
you.” 

“What do you mean?” again the deadly fear 
gripped at her heart. 

“Remember what I told you that day in Nolan. 
Well, I ain’t fergot. I had plenty time to think it 
over, back there in Nome. Six months they kep’ 
me in their damn jail—all on account of you an’ 
Old Man Gordon—an’ now it’s my turn.” His 
voice fairly quivered with insane rage as he jerked 

318 


Sunrise 


319 


off his mitten and extended the twisted claw that 
had been a hand. “An’ that’s what yer damn dog 
done! But he won’t never chaw no one else up! 
An’ Old Man Gordon won’t never beat another race, 
neither. An’ you—well—you an’ me might git on 
all right when you come to know me better—an’ 
then agin—we mightn’t.” 

A cold calm took possession of the girl: “Don’t 
be a fool, Dalzene,” she said. “The man you just 
passed is coming back in a few minutes, and when 
he does, he will kill you.” 

“Oh, that’s it, is it? That’s what’s goin’ on up 
here on Myrtle? Kind of thought Old Man Gor¬ 
don’s b’iler would cost him about all the race money, 
time he got it up here. You ort to move down where 
they’s more men.” 

Lou Gordon understood nothing of the man’s im¬ 
plication, but the look in the leering eyes brought 
a hot flush of shame to her face. Dalzene con¬ 
tinued : “But, you don’t need to bother about him— 
he’s through.” 

“What do you mean ?” she shrieked the question, 
staring wide eyed into the leering face. 

The man laughed: “You know what yer friends 
would do to me if they ketched me on the Koyukuk. 
Well, I done it first—that’s all. He’s layin’ back 
there in the snow, ’bout five mile down the crick. 
An’ he ain’t cornin’ back—none whatever.” 

A single piercing cry forced itself from between 
the girl’s lips. Huloimee Tilakum was dead! And 


320 


North 


before her the man who had killed him stood and 
grinningly bragged of his deed. A red haze filmed 
her brain. Like a flash she whirled in her tracks 
and disappeared around the bend. In the cabin was 
the rifle! She would kill these two human beasts 
as she would kill wolves. A wild primordial fury 
gripped her heart—a fury that for the moment over¬ 
shadowed the pain. This man had killed her man— 
and in red vengeance he should be killed! 

With the hand of all men against him Jake Dal- 
zene hated all men. Brooding upon this hate during 
the term of his imprisonment had transformed him 
into a veritable beast of hate. A malignant, dan¬ 
gerous thing of evil he was turned loose upon the 
North at the expiration of his term. Hating all 
men, he concentrated the full venom of his insane 
rage upon the Gordons upon whom he laid the blame 
for his downfall. It was Old Man Gordon who 
had‘caused him to lose his money on the Koyukuk, 
and indirectly had turned the whole Koyukuk 
against him. Over there they would kill him on 
sight—^as they would kill a snake. The Gordon dog 
had maimed him for life, and Lou Gordon had 
treated him with supreme contempt in the roadhouse 
at Nolan, and later had outwitted him (as he 
thought) in Nome. 

When he gained his freedom his one obsession 
was to eve;i the score with the Gordons. He would 
slip over onto Myrtle, would kill the old man, and 
then—alone on the deserted creek with the girl— 


Sunrise 


321 


his eyes flickered with bestial lust as he thought of 
the girl. After that, if they killed him on the Koyu- 
kuk, they would have something to kill him for! 

Dalzene was penniless. He needed an outfit, for 
the journey to Myrtle Creek. So he went to work 
on the dumps. It was there he met a fellow convict 
whose term had expired a month previous, and real¬ 
izing that he might need help, cautiously sounded 
the man out. Satisfied, he laid stress upon the 
winnings of Gordon, and broached a scheme where¬ 
by they should visit Myrtle together, murder Gor¬ 
don, divide whatever of loot there might be in the 
cabin. 

The two pooled their earnings for the venture, 
and toward the middle of January, pulled out of 
Nome. The utmost caution had been used in the 
ascent of the Koyukuk from the mouth of the 
Alatna. Dalzene knew every foot of the country, 
and he was careful to detour past all camps and 
native villages. Once on Myrtle caution was re¬ 
laxed. The deep snows of the winter had rendered 
it extremely improbable that there would be any 
travel on the abandoned creek, and the outfit held 
to the creek bed. The two celebrated their safe 
arrival on Myrtle with liberal quantities of hooch, 
the fiery liquor acting upon Dalzene’s brain added 
fuel to his desire for revenge. 

Upon rounding a bend they had come face to 
face with MacShane. The rifle and heavy six gun 
with which they had provided themselves were 


322 


North 


lashed to the toboggan and the man was right upon 
them. To attempt to release the gun would invite 
disaster. With a sense of vast relief Dalzene noted 
that the man was using a toboggan. He was not 
a man of the Koyukuk, and in all probability would 
know nothing of the edict of the miners’ meeting. 
With elaborate heartiness, he tendered his bottle, 
but the other declined, and after a few words of 
commonplace conversation, he passed on and dis¬ 
appeared in the gloom. 

Five miles farther on, Lou Gordon had come 
suddenly upon them, and all the hate of his warped 
soul leaped into Dalzene’s brain. Helpless she was, 
unarmed and completely at his mercy. He took 
fiendish delight in taunting her. When she men¬ 
tioned the man who had passed on the trail, it was 
his devilish ingenuity alone that prompted him to 
concoct the lie about killing him. He divined that 
it would cause her pain—so he told her the man 
was dead. And he had gloated as the sound of the 
girl’s shriek rose on the air. That cry was music 
to the ears of Dalzene, and he chuckled all the way 
up the creek as his inflamed brain dwelt upon the 
pain that had showed in her eyes. She could not 
escape him. Old Man Gordon would be no match 
for him and his convict companion. So, as he 
mushed he laughed. Just before reaching the cabin, 
Dalzene paused, and unlashing the rifle from the 
sled, passed it to the other. About his own waist 
he strapped a belt from which dangled a six gun 


Sunrise 


323 


in a holster. Then, keeping the door in sight, they 
separated and cautiously advanced toward the cabin. 

“Open up, Gordon!” he called, “Open up, an' 
we’ll make a dicker.” There was no response from 
the interior, and Dalzene drew nearer. Pausing, he 
examined the snow, passing completely around the 
cabin, and walking to the boiler. Then he returned 
and took a position near the door. “So that’s the 
way of it I” he called, “The old man ain’t here! He 
ain’t be’n here since the last snow! So, yer here 
alone, eh?” 

Within the cabin Lou Gordon gripped her rifle 
and answered: “I expect dad any minute!” 

“You do, do you? Well, it’s be’n a good many 
minutes since he was here, an’ I guess he won’t be 
bustin’ in on our party. If he does he’ll git his’n 
like the stranger did back on the trail.” 

Inside the cabin, the girl’s lips pressed into a 
straight white line, and her fingers gripped the rifle 
till the knuckles whitened. If she could only shoot! 
But the same log walls that protected her, protected 
her besiegers also. She wished now she had fol¬ 
lowed her first plan to lie in wait for them outside, 
but she had overestimated Dalzene’s cunning. She 
had figured that he would divide his forces, and 
that she would be struck down from behind before 
she could kill him. The heavily frosted panes of 
the windows gave her no chance to shoot from the 
cabin. 

The dog kennels attracted Dalzene’s eye, and 


324 


North 


with a curse, he gripped his revolver and lurched, 
toward them. “You kin say good bye to yer big 
lead dog, now!” he taunted. “Fll fix him, fer 
chawin’ the hand off me! Damn him, he’s where he 
can’t git at me an’ I’ll shoot him all to pieces before 
I kill him.” At the girl’s side, in the cabin, Skoo- 
kum sniffed the air suspiciously and a low growl 
rumbled in his throat, as the hair bristled upon his 
back. “Oh, why didn’t you kill him, Skookum?” 
whispered the girl in desperation. 

She could hear Dalzene moving about near the 
kennels. Stealthily she raised the bar of the door, 
and opened it just a crack, the next moment the door 
slammed shut and the bar crashed into place. The 
other man had leaped for the opening. Stepping 
swiftly back the girl sent a bullet crashing through 
the door, and the man answered with a taunting 
laugh. “Try it agin, sis! If you hit me you git a 
cigar!” 

A loud cry from Dalzene brought her up, tense, 
listening. “Damn you, don’t you kill that gal—she's 
mine! I’ll tend to her case.” 

In vain Dalzene sought for the great lead dog 
among the dogs in the corral, round and round the 
fence he walked trying to single him out in the 
gloom. The noontime dawn had not yet broken, and 
as the man stepped onto a mound of snow close be¬ 
side the fence for a better view of the corral, his 
snowshoe caught upon an obstruction and he fell 
heavily. With a curse, he scrambled to his feet and 


Sunrise 


325 


kicked at the obstacle that had tripped him. It was 
immovable, but the kick had partially dislodged the 
loose snow from about it. Swiftly Dalzene dropped 
to his knees, and with his hands dug the snow away. 
The object was a little wooden cross, and placing his 
eyes close to its surface he read the inscription 
burned into the wood. 

t 

STUART GORDON 
Died Jan. 13, 19—. 

Slowly the man rose to his feet and with lust- 
gleaming eyes, stood staring down into the snow, 
while in his brain, a new plan was born. With the 
journey to Myrtle accomplished and Gordon out of 
the way, he would have no further use for his con¬ 
federate. He would watch his chance, shoot him 
from behind, and the loot and the girl would be his 
own. He glanced up. The man was watching him. 
He would play for time. Swiftly he walked to the 
cabin. “J^st when was it you was expectin’ the 
old man back ?” he asked, following the words with a 
hoarse laugh that told the girl that he knew. She 
answered nothing. 

Again the man spoke, changing his tactics: 
“Come on out, peaceable, an’ we won’t hurt you 
none,” he wheedled, “All I want is you should hit up 
to Nolan an’ fix it with the boys so they’ll let me 
back on the river. That’s all I want. Honest to 
God, it is. An’ they’ll do it if you tell ’em to.” 


326 


North 


Again, no answer. “All right, I got another propo¬ 
sition. Throw in with me, an’ we’ll stay here an’ 
work the old man’s claim. They ain’t no use tryin’ 
to buck me. I got you where I want you, an’ you 
ort to know it. The old man hain’t cornin’ back. 
I jist stumbled onto his grave. How about it?” 

Silence from the cabin. Suddenly into Dalzene’s 
hate-crazed brain leaped the memory of that other 
day when he had talked to this girl and she had not 
deigned reply. It was the day of the miners’ meet¬ 
ing. A sudden fury flared within him. And his 
voice raised to a bellow: “Damn you! You will 
come out! Come out, I say! Or, By God, I’ll burn 
you out! Bar the door all you want to, you can’t 
bar fire! Come out here! Damn you! Do you 
hear?” 

Inside the cabin the girl stood gripping her rifle. 
Cold fear clutched her heart. She closed her eyes, 
and for a moment the world swam and she reeled, 
slightly. Fire! They would fire the cabin. In¬ 
stantly she recovered herself. Well, it was the end. 
She would go out—when the smoke and heat forced 
her out. But she would go out shooting. She 
would never surrender! Never would that brute 
defile her living body with his foul touch. He 
might kill her, but he would never take her alive. 
The odds were two to one, but she would die fight¬ 
ing. She would kill them, or force them to kill her. 

She could hear the enraged Dalzene ordering the 
man to carry spruce branches. She could hear the 


Sunrise 


327 


branches being heaped against the cabin. Then— 
the crackle of flames—louder and louder the crack¬ 
ling sounded, until it rose in a steady roar. The 
frost began to melt on the window panes, some 
chinking from high on the wall fell to the floor and 
the acrid smell of smoke reached her nostrils. Leap¬ 
ing to the window whose panes were fast clearing in 
the heat she saw Dalzene standing upon the edge of 
the creek facing the door. A cloud of smoke shot 
through with red flame swept past the window, con¬ 
cealing the figure. Stepping back the girl cocked her 
rifle and raising it waited for the smoke screen to 
drift past. 

‘‘Wonder where they’re headin’?” muttered Mac- 
Shane as the two-man outfit disappeared in the 
darkness. “Guzzlin’ hooch on the trail ain’t goin’ 
to git ’em far. The big one was plumb drunk. 
They’ll have to camp before long. Anyway,” he 
grinned, “They’ve left me a good trail!” 

A half-hour later he pulled up his dogs before the 
door of a deserted cabin and explored its interior. 
“This will do till Old Man Gordon gets back,” he 
decided, and proceeded to unharness his dogs. This 
done, he carried his pack from the toboggan and 
tossed it upon the floor of the cabin. “Wonder 
where the old man went an’ how long he’s goin’ to 
stay?” he mused, “Nolan prob’ly. She said she 
expected him back any time.” A slow smile twisted 
the corners of his mouth. “I wonder if she’s found 


328 


North 


my note, yet? I wonder if she cares? Maybe I 
hadn’t ought to put that down—about us two bein' 
tired of missin' life. Wish I hadn’t. Wonder if 
she’ll be watchin’ for me to come back?” He paused 
abruptly, and stepping to the door, stared in the 
direction from which he had come. wonder if 
them two would bother her any?” Smiling at the 
thought, he returned to his unpacking. A few 
moments later he again stepped to the door and 
gazed up the creek. “Hell!” he muttered, “No one 
would bother a woman! But—the big one was 
drunk. She’s a sourdough all right an’ able to take 
care of herself. But—it wouldn’t hurt to kind of 
mush along up that way—maybe the old man’s got 
back.” MacShane laughed aloud: “Trouble with 
me is I’m just naturally honin’ to be near her. You 
can’t never tell what a drunk man will do. I’ve got 
a kind of a hunch I ought to hit the back-trail—an’ 
when I get a hunch—I ride it 1 ” 

Fastening on his snowshoes he struck swiftly off 
up the creek. Their trail afforded good footing, 
and he walked rapidly. 

At the point when the two-man outfit halted for 
the second time he paused and examined the tracks 
in the snow. “Someone else was cornin’ down the 
creek besides me,” he muttered, “Someone in my 
trail—an’ when he met this other outfit he turned 
around an'—” MacShane’s words ceased abruptly 
as he further examined the marks left by the snow- 
shoes where their edges overlapped the toboggan 


Sunrise 329 

trail. “He was runnin’,” he exclaimed “What in 
hell ?” 

For an instant his heart ceased beating. Could 
it have been —kerf Why had she turned back— 
running ? The thought raced through his brain, and 
with a hoarse cry he dashed up the trail. 

Rounding the last bend he stopped, horror- 
stricken. The red flare of flames confronted him. 
The cabin was on fire! No, it was light brush piled 
against the cabin I By the light of the leaping blaze 
he could make out the figures of the two armed men 
watching the cabin. The larger of the two stood 
upon the bank of the creek scarce twenty yards 
away. He caught the glint of the heavy revolver in 
the man’s hand. MacShane was unarmed. Swiftly 
releasing the thongs of his snowshoes, he dropped 
from the bank to a strip of wind-swept ice, dashed 
toward the motionless figure of the man. 

“Come on out! Damn you! I told you the time 
would come when you would talk pretty to Jake Dal- 
zene!” The words ended in a startled cry as Mac¬ 
Shane hurled himself upon him. The six gun, 
knocked from his hand, buried itself in the snow. 

A puff of wind eddied the smoke-screen and Lou 
Gordon dropped her eye to the sights of her rifle. 
The man she had so long feared—the man who had, 
in cold blood, murdered Huloimee Tilakum stood 
as he had stood before the smoke and flames had 
blotted him from her sight. Her finger tightened 
upon the trigger. The next instant the rifle was 


330 


North 


lowered and with face pressed close to the glass 
the girl was staring wide-eyed through the window. 
Another form had leaped into view behind the form 
of Dalzene. The words with which the man was 
taunting her ended in a hoarse cry of fear—and two 
bodies were struggling in the snow! 

A blur of motion caught the corner of the girl’s 
eye and she turned her head to see the man with the 
rifle rushing to Dalzene’s assistance. Crossing the 
room at a bound, she hurled the heavy bar aside, 
flung the door open, raised her rifle, and fired. The 
man with the rifle staggered a few steps, and re¬ 
gaining his balance, turned toward her, bringing 
his rifle to his shoulder. Again she fired and the 
man sagged .slowly at the knees and crumpled into 
the snow. 

As the door opened Skookum sprang past his 
mistress with a hoarse growl of fury. 

Upon the bank of the creek the two struggling 
figures had regained their feet. Neither had been 
able to recover the six gun. At the sound of shots 
they sprang apart and stared at the man in the snow. 

The next instant the air was rent by a thin, shrill 
scream. The most blood-curdling sound MacShane 
had ever heard—coming as it did from the throat 
of a full-grown man—a cry so awful in its abandon 
of abject soul-terror as to cause a prickling sensa¬ 
tion at the roots of his hair. Hardly had the shriek 
left the man’s lips than a great tawny shape hurtled 
through the air and MacShane gazed in horror as 


Sunrise 


331 


the gleaming white fangs that studded the cavern¬ 
ous yawning mouth closed with an audible crunch 
upon the man^s face. The great dog’s momentum 
carried him past, as he bowled the man into the 
snow. Strange, inarticulate sounds came from the 
writhing body and MacShane, after one horrified 
glance turned away. The man in struggling to rise 
turned his head toward him and where his face had 
been living eyeballs bulged from their sockets and 
between two naked, flesh-stripped rows of teeth a 
living tongue writhed in audible mouthings. 

The great dog sprang again—and MacShane 
rushed to the girl. “Quick!” he cried, “We can 
save the cabin yet!” and with his bare hands began 
to tear the blazing boughs from the wall. Side 
by side they worked, tearing away the brush and 
throwing snow on the blazing eaves. The thick 
logs of the cabin wall, already smoking, were easily 
extinguished with snow. 

MacShane rubbed a handful of snow upon the last 
glowing coal and as he turned from the wall his 
eyes met the eyes of Lou Gordon—those wondrous 
dark eyes that were living wells of— love! The 
next instant his arms were about her and the tears 
from those dark eyes were wetting his cheeks. 

“This is the answer to your question,” he whis¬ 
pered, a few moments later when, with her head 
resting against his breast she looked up into his face. 

“But we haven’t missed—life! For us life is just 
beginning,” she said. 


332 


North 


“I sure hope Gordon will come back soon,” smiled 
the man. And for reply, the girl pointed to the little 
wooden cross that Dalzene had uncovered in the 
snow, and together they turned away. 

“And now, my woman, we’ll be married,” said 
MacShane, as they paused at the door of the cabin. 
The girl looked into his face with a smile. “And I 
will be Mrs .—Huloimee Tilakumf” she asked, “Do 
you know, dear—” the unfamiliar word hesitated 
upon her lips. “You have never told me your name.” 

“My name,” he laughed, “I told you once I would 
some day tell you my name. It is Burr Mac¬ 
Shane-” 

“Burr MacShane!” cried the girl, staring wide 
eyed into his face. “Why dad has been hunting 
for you for years ! He wanted to apologize for— 
what he said—back in Dawson. Dear old dad—if 
he could only know I” 

“Maybe he does know,” whispered MacShane, 
softly, as his lips met hers. 

“Wait!” she cried a few moments later, and 
darting into the cabin she reappeared with a 
grotesquely carved wooden doll, in a dress of faded 
silk. “Do you know what this is ?” she asked, hold¬ 
ing it up before him, “It has been my most treasured 
possession.” 

The man smiled, “Yes,” he answered, “I gave it 
to you myself—years ago—that Christmas, in 
Dawson. I told you back in Nome it was a game— 
I knew you, an’ you didn’t know me—the biggest 



Sunrise 


333 


game of all, girl—and I won! And now I’m goin’ 
to claim the stakes. There’s a parson at Alekaket 
Mission,” he whispered and smiled happily as the 
girl’s face flushed crimson. 

Skookum left off worrying at the thing that 
sprawled in the snow on the creek bank, and as the 
two stood arm in arm, he joined them, and rearing 
upward, placed a huge paw upon the breast of each. 
And as taeir hands stroked the great dog’s neck, the 
smouldering amber eyes glowed softly. 

An hour later the two paused for a farewell look 
at the little cabin on Myrtle. Beside them the worth¬ 
less iron boiler reared its gaunt black sides above 
the drifted snow. 

The girl’s eyes filmed as they rested for a moment 
upon the little wooden cross, and as she turned away 
the Arctic gloom gradually lightened. She glanced 
upward toward the broad bands of purple and pink 
that shot into the zenith. 

“Come!” she cried, and hurriedly led the way to 
the summit of a long bare ridge. “Look!” she 
pointed toward the southern horizon where a red 
disk upon the far off rim of the world was dis¬ 
sipating the bands of purple and pink: “The sun! 
I watched it go down nearly three months ago,” 
she murmured, softly. “And my heart was heavy 
and sad. I thought I had lost you, dear. I thought 
that for me love was dead, and my life loomed dark 
and cold as the long, long night that was before me. 
But see—now it is day!” 


334 


North 


‘^Yes, girl,” answered MacShane—‘‘now it is 
day. It is a good omen. The sun means—life, and 
love, and happiness. 

“I told Camillo Bill, way back in Dawson that 
my hunch said ‘North’—an’ I rode it!” 


THE END 


A Selection from the 
Catalogue of 

C. P. PUTNAM’S SONS 


Complete Catalo^uea S^at 
on application 







* r 


/ 



. .j ■ 


>■ 


-K ■ 


1 

■ ’ ,'i 





The 

Man in the Twilight 

By 

Ridgwell Cullum 

Author of “The Heart of Unaga” etc. 

The setting of this story is 
laid in the forests, in a country 
the author knows well. Its 
plot is as intricate as he 
knows how to make it, and is 
worked out among the toilers 
in two great pulp industries, 
with the hero in one camp 
and the heroine in the rival 
one, and the figure of the man 
in the twilight casting a 
weird and strange influence 

over the chief actors. 

“It is vital, highly strung, full of fire and vim and 
zest. It is a go-ahead in fiction, in truth, with plenty 
of hustle in it. Few recent novels have such a grip, 
so much of earnestness mixed with that deliciously 
quaint, startling humor which is so characteristic 
of American life and literature. It is a book that 
must be read.’’— Freeman's Journal, 

G. P. Putnam’s Sons 



New York 


London 
















Where the 
Stin Swings North 

By 

Barrett Willoughby 

Read, and you’ll agree that “Where the Sun 
Swings North” is a find! So is Barrett Wil¬ 
loughby ! 

“Scotty Allan,” famous throughout all the 
Northwest, calls this the best book yet about 
Alaska—and the truest 

The breath of actuality blows through its fasci¬ 
nating pages; its people are real, not reel. Its 
atmosphere is inspiringly authentic, because its 
author, a bom-there Alaskan, knows —and also 
knows how to write with a zest of colorful charm 
and hixman understanding. 

It’s an altogether bully book of love and ad¬ 
venture “where the sun swings north,” with a 
background and treatment delightfully different. 


G. P. Putnam’s Sons 

New York London 










The East Wind 


By 

Hugh MacNair Kahler 


When a new writer finds and holds an audience 
of two million and more, with no resort to sensation¬ 
alism, sex, or silly sentiment, it is proof enough that 
he has extraordinary ability to interest and entertain. 
When, besides, his work wins emphatic praise from 
such sure critics as Tarkington and Galsworthy, it 
is sound evidence that he does something more. 

The six short novels included in this book abund¬ 
antly illustrate Hugh Kahler’s remarkable appeal to 
three types of reader: those who read stories for 
the story’s sake, those who exact of fiction fresh 
mental stimulus, and those who demand, as well, 
distinctive, brilliant craftsmanship in writing. 

Here is a book to enjoy, to think about, and to 
keep. 


G. P. Putnam’s Sons 


New York 


London 




My Northern 
Exposure 

The Kawa at the Pole 

By 

Walter E. Traprock 

Similar in format to the 
famous Cruise of the 
Kawa, this new volume 
carries the reader on an 
exciting and riotously 
funny expedition to the 
frozen north. It is an 
account of the adven¬ 
tures of the redoubtable 
Dr. Traprock (and party) 
who set out to discover the real North Pole— 
but undertake their voyage in a most im- 
usual manner. The incidents, accidents, and 
final discoveries in this merry burlesque are 
certain to afford as much, if, indeed, not more 
enjoyment than the first Kawa story. 

21 gorgeous full page illustrations. 

G. P. Putnam’s Sons 

New York London 















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